


Animatros Rex

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: Cybertron [3]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Cybertron
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a lush, organic planet riddled with lethal radiation, exiles from the planet Cybertron take on the forms of animals to survive. This is Animatros - a primordial, bestial place where claws rule all and <i>huntnomore</i> can descend upon you at any time! Animatros and its Planet Key have earned the attention of the most savage beings within the ranks of the Autobots and Decepticons... but even their ferocity pales in comparison with the dreaded Flame Convoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Flesh.

The scent of it was everywhere, wreathing the volcano like the first mists of morning. It threatened to overwhelm his senses, fill up his nose and swamp his mechanical lungs.

Blood and oil.

Two fluids, the milks of very different existences, ran thick through the soil. He could feel them soaked into every grain beneath his paws, see them splattered on the trees and leafy fronds.

This was the place of _huntnomore_ , the land where perverted creatures arose. This was the Purple Mask nest, home of he who ruled. He who would, from tonight, rule no longer.

His keen ears snatched tales from the wind – locations of predators, of enemies and of allies. Saidos was close by, sitting dumbly in the darkness. There he would remain until ordered otherwise. The red-and-grey rhino was powerful but had no initiative, would not act unless told when and how to act. Even then he was lazy and uncooperative. Difficult to get moving and even harder to stop – the very definition of Saidos. Thick of hide and thick of head, he listened poorly and understood less.

Another tale from the breeze – a story of tense, animalistic fury, barely contained. Ligerjack was to his right, and the lion was angry. He’d been told to keep down so his golden metal did not catch the moonlight. As usual he’d paid no heed. Ligerjack was keenly intelligent and a true hunter – yet his animal passions and lust drove all sense from his processor when battle was near. He was a berserker, a killing machine, more akin to a foe than a friend.

In other corners, behind other trees and even above, Fang Wolf could sense the rest of his pack – those who wore the mark of the Red Mask. They were few in number and each so different from the other. Yet they were joined by oil and by purpose – the desire to free their world, Animatros, from the grip of the Purple Masks.

Once, he had been one of them – the Purple Mask had been on his hide and he had worn it proudly. Then they changed… or he did… and Fang Wolf led the rebellion away from their hunting grounds. The pack of the Red Mask slowly formed, and war followed.

Despite his rebellion, Fang Wolf tried to be different again, strove to be something more than even his pack. Blue and white wolf he may be, but that did not make him an animal. He sought the opportunity to transcend, rather than merely transform. He longed to understand himself but had no time… there was always, always more _fighthuntkill_ to be done.

Like tonight... they would succeed, or they would die. The benefit far outweighed the danger… a chance, a tantalisingly slim chance, for Animatros to finally be free.

He growled, deep in his synthesiser, to spur his brethren into movement. Then he dropped his belly to the ground and slunk through the foliage. They had cover for most of the way to the volcano, and they would use it. Then… then he would use Saidos, Ligerjack and the others, even if it meant their ends. Their oil would be his offering to peace, should it be necessary.

At the edge of the trees, Fang Wolf paused again. Yellow optics scanned his target, searching for the sick, slow or clumsy… the first morsels of prey. Thirty Purple Masks – a menagerie of Transformers in beast forms, a zoo of depravity – stood sentry in front of the Purple Mask nest.

Since the first dawn on Animatros, they had held sway over the population. Though they mimicked the forms of the natives, the Purple Masks were not of the natives. Their stronghold was much the same – enormous golden rocket engines protruded from the base of the volcano, forming a lean-to under which roosted the enemy.

How he hated them, despised all they had become. He and the Red Masks sought dominance through harmony, stalking only that which was necessary. It was the wastefulness, the gluttony, of the Purple Masks that had driven Fang Wolf away from their hunting grounds. They ran on blood – running down all creatures, stealing their very flesh and bone and weaving it into their circuitry. Just as their base was a part Animatros and part Transformer metal, so too were the Purple Masks sickening hybrids of native skin and living steel.

Flesh. Blood and oil. The scents were everywhere.

And, at this distance, they were overwhelming – just as Fang Wolf had hoped. Predictably, Ligerjack reached the edge of the trees and lost control, his passions inflamed. With a flashing of claws, the lion sprung from cover and dove into the mass of Purple Masks. Fang Wolf howled, and the noise spurred Saidos into action. His keen eyes saw a green flash as the rhino’s Force Chip ignited, extending his horn by several feet.

The Purple Masks screeched and gibbered and roared and cawed, but even their numbers were not enough to save them. Four were knocked aside by the end of Saidos’ horn while others suffered a worse fate… they were attacked by Ligerjack. All trace of higher intelligence gone, the lion simply hacked and slashed and tore and bit and hacked again. Sparks flew and oil flowed until the golden beast was streaked with black and ash, leaving him looking like a tiger. He did not bother to ignite his Force Chip… he had no need for it.

As the other Red Masks stormed into the battle, Fang Wolf slipped between the carnage and loped into the square corridor beneath the engines. There he transformed, taking on his robot mode for the first time in many days. Saidos and Ligerjack joined him moments later – a squat robot and a lithe android replacing the beasts. Four or five other Red Masks filed in behind… a small squad, but enough for the task at hand.

It took but a moment for all of them to feel the familiar sensation – as if someone had poured the coolest spring water over their very Sparks. Only here, in the volcano, and in the deepest caves could they shed their beast forms and return to their true natures, their sanity returning as a result. The very air of Animatros would not suffer robots anywhere else.

Fang Wolf caught his reflection in the gleaming corridor surface. Even as a robot, he had distinctly lupine features – his robot head closely resembled his wolf head, which now formed one of his arms. He’d long thought himself the halfway point between Transformer and animal, which was why he strove to be more than the other Red Masks. Perhaps, after tonight, he’d finally have the freedom to become that creature, become a true beast/machine.

Perhaps.

Saidos grunted – without an order, and quickly, he’d lapse into apathy. Fang Wolf barked a short, sharp set of instructions. With those outside well and truly occupied, they would move higher on the food chain – Dinoshout and Terrashaver, the lieutenants of the Purple Mask. Then, the king himself.

Ligerjack drew his tail-whip and padded forward. Fang Wolf took up his flank, clutching a long-barreled missile launcher. The others followed, Saidos lumbering along at the rear. He dragged his feet like a petulant Protoform and idly tapped his horn – now transformed into a wrecking hook – on the polished floor.

They found their prey in a room just off the main corridor. Like the rest of the nest it was lined with gold but, in this room, a massive computer system dominated the space. Dinoshout was crouched over the keyboard, peering through his armoured visor at the screen. He fidgeted constantly, scratching at the large fin on his back - which had been stolen from an unfortunate native beast long ago. Fresh blood dripped from the cuts he made, for Dinoshout had no fingers. His hands formed the head and mouth of his lizard form, and so small teeth raked the fleshy membrane over and over again.

Terrashaver, by contrast, was the very picture of stillness. He stood off to one side, his black, yellow and purple limbs barely moving. Every part of Terrashaver was spindly save for his upper torso, which was a triangular block incorporating engines and air filters. Too heavy to fly like the birds whose plumage he coveted, Terrashaver relied on “the box” to take to the air. Its size and importance made it the perfect first target for the Red Masks.

Fang Wolf raised his missile launcher and took aim. Its payload loosed silently, making nary a whistle as it split the air between him and Terrashaver. The first sound anyone heard was the explosion, followed by the avian robot’s howl of pain. Fang Wolf growled a command and his pack swarmed into the room, howling and barking and roaring their rage. As Terrashaver fell to the floor, clutching his smouldering torso, the Red Masks piled on top of Dinoshout – the near-sighted lizard had barely seen them coming. He went down, teeth and claws digging through his fin, beneath a swarm of metal beasts.

After a moment, Fang Wolf crooned to Saidos and Ligerjack. The three of them had another place to be – Terrashaver and Dinoshout were fodder for the others now. He craned his neck toward the golden corridor and they followed him out, fuel pumps pounding with battle lust. He knew he had been starving them of their rightful kills. It had been his plan all along – work them into a frenzy and then deny them their release so that all their fury would be saved for the king.

The need for stealth was gone. Saidos transformed back into rhino mode and charged down the corridor, his feet drumming a death march. Ligerjack and Fang Wolf stayed in their robots modes and summoned the green glow of their Force Chips, flooding their hydraulics with power. Their final target was not one to be taken lightly.

There was a door ahead – steel grey instead of gold – and Saidos lowered his head, knocking it down with one thrust. The rhino transformed again as he hurtled through the opening, coming to rest with his hook drawn. Ligerjack snarled as he entered, cat’s eyes scanning the dusky interior for this foe.

Fang Wolf simply walked in, missile launcher at the ready. He defragged his synthesiser and opened his jaw to speak. While he and the Red Masks could communicate non-verbally, the Purple Masks still clung to speech. “Flame Convoy!” he called, his bestial accent thick and heavy. “Your hunt has ended! Come now and be prey!”

The room stayed dark, but not silent. All three of them could hear the _click-clack_ of talons on metal as something… someone… padded the cavern. “Ever the optimist,” came a deep voice. “Tell me… did you _really_ think you had any hope of success?”

There was a sound like a waterfall, then a rush of heat. Fang Wolf threw himself to one side, barely dodging a plume of flame that shot toward them. Ligerjack escaped without harm while poor, dumb Saidos was singed down one side. He managed to shuffle out of the way as something whipped past them in the darkness, its serpentine scales rustling as it made its way out of the chamber and back down the corridor.

This time, Fang Wolf did not need to issue the order – Saidos and Ligerjack grimly followed their target, which had run to the entrance of the nest and stopped.

It was twice their height and three times their length. Jagged golden quills rose from its front shoulders, while all four feet ended in horrid orange talons. Its tail – by itself longer than Saidos – did not move but sat rigid, tensed. Atop its thick, muscular neck sat a head that was a nightmare of crushing jaws and serrated teeth, its purple eyes set into bony ridges. Its entire form was streaked with black and yellow, orange and red, as if every inch of steel and stolen flesh had been set alight.

Flame Convoy. The ruler of Animatros, and their true prey.

“Your pack was downed like pups,” Fang Wolf snarled. “Your most trusted soldiers fell to the weight of our numbers and our cause. There is no mercy for you. Your moon sets now.”

“Perhaps,” Flame Convoy drawled, embers falling from his teeth. “But likely not.” He smiled as a mass of shapes drew in behind him. It was the Purple Masks that had been guarding the entrance, battered and bruised but still very much alive. In their hands they held pieces of the Red Mask army… heads, legs and arms that still sparked and shorted.

A noise behind, and Fang Wolf turned – Terrashaver and Dinoshout were behind them, wires from their oil-stained bodies. The lizard bot’s hands were twitching, chunks of Red Masks between each tooth. Terrashaver wore a string of frayed hydraulic lines around his neck.

Saidos whimpered.

“Interesting how the dumbest of the animals senses his fate first,” Flame Convoy murmured, every word dripping with scorn. “He is not blinded by intelligence or false idealism, this one… though slow, he is a perfect animal in that he is guided by his instincts. Had he followed them earlier this night, he would not be here now, at the moment of _huntnomore_.”

Fang Wolf stammered. “I don’t understand… they were beaten…”

“Beaten?” Flame Convoy scoffed. “Hardly. This has all been for _your_ benefit, my prodigal son. You desired to overthrow me and felt you lacked only opportunity. Now, I have provided that opportunity.”

In a maelstrom of gears and living sinew, he transformed. Flame Convoy rose up, taller again, on his hind legs and swivelled his arms into place. His dragon-head dipped and changed into a horrifying breast plate. His true head – helmed in black, painted in purple, canine teeth jutting up from his lower jaw – rose. He reached behind himself and snapped off his tail, the severed appendage transforming into a massive, cruel sledgehammer. He set the weapon to one side.

“Here I stand, under ‘threat’ from four heavily-armed Red Masks, and yet my troops,” he gestured to the entrance, “do nothing. Ask yourself _why_.”

Ligerjack’s composure broke. The proud set of his spine faltered, and he sank back on his haunches.

Flame Convoy barely seemed to notice. “Dinoshout and Terrashaver are behind you, alive and undamaged. And yet they too will take no course of action – again, ask yourself _why_.

“Finally, ask yourself _why_ I stand here, unarmed, while you three possess enough weaponry to bring down the side of a mountain.”

He sniggered. Fang Wolf felt his oil chill.

“There is just one simple reason, my former soldier. I want you to understand how totally and utterly helpless you really are. Now come – _show me what you can do!_ ”

Infuriated and embarrassed, Fang Wolf raised his missile launcher, firing off a salvo of blasts. The plumes of flame galvanised his companions into action. Ligerjack fired small rockets from his shoulders while Saidos fired energy blasts from ports in his knees. They drew more and more on the power of their Force Chips, intensifying their assault.

Flame Convoy stood in their line of fire, watched their weapons bounce harmlessly off his hide… _and laughed_.

The insult was the last straw for Saidos. Pride dwells in even the dimmest heart, and the rhino’s had been wounded as never before. He transformed to beast mode and lunged at his enemy. With one sweeping movement, Flame Convoy snatched up his discarded hammer then brought it over and down, right in the centre of Saidos’ back. The blow crushed the little beast almost flat to the floor. He lay there, arms and legs twitching, as Flame Convoy took a single step forward and lashed out, catching Ligerjack full force. The lion was hurled into the air and landed, further back down the corridor, in a shower of sparks and oil.

Fang Wolf’s optics telescoped in surprise and horror. He had hunted alongside Flame Convoy, watched him stalk and run down and devour, and never had he displayed such power! He’d been wrong, he’d been so very, very wrong. He had led his pack to the fiery peak of _huntnomore_ and found slaughter, not victory.

He lowered his head and sank to his knees. A second later, Flame Convoy’s shadow fell over him and stained his blue-and-white hide with darkness.

“Your moon sets now,” Flame Convoy intoned, and brought his hammer down a third time.


	2. Chapter 2

“This place _dump_.”

Grimlock listened as his voice echoed through the rocky cavern. It bounced off the walls, scattering small pebbles and raising clouds of dust. Satisfied, he grunted. _No good for Dinobot to land on new planet without smashing something_ , he reasoned.

To his left, Swoop clicked his tongue and tutted. “Brave new world, same old Grimlock,” he sighed. “Honestly, boss, sometimes I think destruction is your way of marking your territory.”

The Dinobot commander spun on his heel, fixing his soldier with a hard, crimson stare. “Bite tongue,” he snarled. “May not look like it most of time, but me Transformer, not animal.”

He was angry, but knew Swoop meant nothing by the comment. The pterodactyl-shaped bomber was his most loyal ally, the closest ‘bot Grimlock had to a friend. He remembered the trials his leader had endured, his life-long struggle against the perceptions of others.

“Forget it,” Grimlock said quietly. “It nothing. We scout now, figure out where we are and where we go from here.”

Swoop nodded, and walked deeper into the chasm. Grimlock crouched low and pretended to study the rocks at his feet.

It had started with one sentence, right at the beginning of his very first troop assessment. So many vorns had passed, but the words still stuck in his craw. For the longest time, he’d feared they would be his epitaph.

All that Cybertronian army officer had seen was his unmatched power, and all he’d heard was the viral glitch in his synthesiser. The unfixable glitch that turned his carefully prepared strategies and advice into guttural mouthing.

 _“Primitive in thought and simple in speech, what Grimlock lacks in intelligence he makes up for in strength,”_ he’d written.

And thus had the intelligent and capable field commander been relegated to battering ram duties. No matter the valour he showed on the simulated battlefields, no matter the courage he demonstrated preparing for a war that never came, his superiors would pat him on the head and, with the fewest syllables, thank him for “doing good”.

Grimlock rested a clawed fist on the ground. _So me grew bitter – so what? Could have been lot worse, considering the company me kept back in the day._

A loud crash snapped him out of his reverie. He slapped his forehead, sighing loudly. “You keep being not careful, Swerve, and me sending you home _without_ a ship.”

Behind him, a red-and-black robot was splayed across the hard surface, staring face-up at the verdant sky. Swerve, Autobot metallurgist, had fallen victim to yet another accident. Unusually, he hadn’t been in car mode for this one.

“Dammit!” he exclaimed, brushing soil and grit from his curved forearms. Swerve was very protective of his hands – each fingertip contained highly-sensitive and finely-tuned sensors vital to his work.

“It’s always the way. You find a nice, potent vein of previously undetected mineral and bam! Someone puts a cliff face up in front of you!” He shook his head in frustration.

“Follow the metal, follow the metal,” he said, mantra-like. “If we follow the metal we’ll know the ores, if we know the ores we’ll know the changes in the land, and if we know the changes in the land we can see what doesn’t fit and that’ll be the Planet Key.

“Simplicity itself – although I’m starting to think this universe is determined to distract me from my primary function. And keep me in the CR chamber.”

Grimlock said nothing.

“That was a joke, Grimlock,” Swerve offered cheerily as he pulled himself upright.

“Bwah hah hah,” the Dinobot said without a trace of mirth.

Wisely, Swerve chose not to reply and resumed his studies. Grimlock sighed again. Just like his super-fast brother, Blur, the metallurgist was a manic driver. His reasons were different, though. Swerve was single-minded and goal-oriented, and so drove like he was wearing a blindfold. He never saw the road, only the newest puzzle in his brain. Worst of all, he stuck to Grimlock and Swoop like the black goo of a tar pit, always volunteering to go along on their missions.

Which is why they were lumped with him again this time around… wherever they were. Two Dinobots and a rock-lover scouting some uncharted backwater for a mystical object – a glowing green disc that could save the world. All because of some crusty old Autobot, his Armageddon mumbo-jumbo and Megatron’s willingness to believe it.

 _Must be shorting out in his old age_ , Grimlock thought. _Meggie I knew would never have gone for something this stupid_.

Megatron had been Grimlock’s saviour, back in the day. Before the war, the legendary military commander had seen past the recommendations of others and recruited “the battering ram” into his unit. There, he stood chassis-to-chassis with Thundercracker, Starscream, Soundwave and Shockblast. There, he’d found his niche, a place to belong at last.

He stood up and started walking.

They had been brothers, joined by oil and by purpose. They were all stronger, faster, more powerful than the standard Cybertronian. The others could even fly in their robot modes. Willingly, they drank in Megatron’s doctrine and propaganda, coming to believe in military might above all else. Learning that the strong should dominate the weak, that power was the only true way to protect their planet.

Grimlock had been the best student of all. He hated weaklings just as much – more – than any of his new friends. The weaklings were the ones in command, those who hid behind him as he knocked down walls, and sprinted for safety when he scattered enemy drones. They were those who patted him on the head condescendingly, those who patronised his every effort. The weaklings surrounded him, and he despised them for their cowardice. That hatred made him tough, gave him purpose, made him one of the team.

All that had changed the day the others went rogue.

Without warning, without a word, Megatron and his group turned on the rest of the army, slaughtering innocent ‘bots left and right. Horrified, Grimlock had tried to stop them, begged for them to put down their weapons. They may have been weaker but the other soldiers were still warriors – and there was no honour in the slaughter of those weaker than you.

Shockblast had stared, bemused, through his single eye. Thundercracker had been the most likely to speak up, to agree, but he was as silent as Soundwave. Starscream, meanwhile, had laughed.

Megatron had not shared his lieutenant’s amusement. His face coloured with disappointment, he simply lowered his shoulder cannons... and fired, leaving Grimlock a half-functioning pool of molten slag.

As the wind whipped through the canyon, Grimlock shuddered with pain. All those eons ago, and he could still feel the searing sting of those blasts like it was happening right now.

He’d spent many megacycles in the CR chamber, after that. By the time he came back on-line, the Autobot/Decepticon war was in full swing. Megatron had started reformatting Mini-cons to act as power sources. Sentinel Prime was dead, leaving Optimus Prime in command. Surviving Mini-Cons had fled Cybertron for parts unknown. Operation: Volcano had come and gone, Ultra Magnus was on-line and the Wreckers were dead.

The newly-christened Decepticons were an unstoppable beast, a hydra whose heads were all those ‘bots Grimlock wanted to slag. He pledged his Energon axe to the Autobots immediately, although they were weaklings like his old commanders. The new Prime, in particular, was a novice in the ways of war. Yet he accepted Grimlock’s counsel, even when he did not act on it, and treated him like an equal. To his shock, he was given a command role – a position equal to that of Magnus – and troops to command.

It was the start of a new military campaign, a new career that had led him here, to this planet, and this mission. One of four commanders given troops and a ship – in his case, the needle-shaped _Steelhaven_ – and sent out to find these “Planet Keys”.

Grimlock did not believe it but had gone along because Megatron believed it. Taking the mission meant going up against his “teacher” once again. He grinned, jaw servos flexing beneath his faceplate. It was a confrontation Grimlock eagerly awaited. The cut and thrust of battle, the scalding heat of Energon blasts…

Scalding heat? Suddenly, Grimlock felt uncomfortable… like he was at the wrong end of Megatron’s cannons again. It was the same pain he’d felt moments earlier. He looked down and saw his legs buckle, their joints seizing. Sparks shot from his bearings and intakes, while blue-white lightning crawled across his torso and down his arms.

 _Warning_ , flashed a message across his vision. _System overload. Ambient Energon levels too high. Stasis lock in two minutes._

He growled, then turned and ran back toward the others. He found Swerve less than two hundred metres away, face down and convulsing. Grimlock grabbed the smaller Autobot on the run and slung him over his shoulder. He shouldn’t have noticed the added weight, but his legs were giving out from under him, slowing his pace.

Barely walking, staggering more than anything else, Grimlock kept going. He could see the very tip of the _Steelhaven_ in the distance, but it may has well have been in another galaxy. As one internal system after another shorted out, the Dinobot commander knew he would not make it back to his ship.

He managed two final, faltering steps. Then he fell to the ground with a massive clang of inert metal. Swerve slipped from his grasp and bounced twice on the rocky surface. His vision fading, Grimlock thought he saw a dark, winged shape hovering over him.

His sight turned to static, then darkness.

\-----

“Stay in beast mode!” Predacon barked. “Trust me, you’ll fare much better that way.”

He grinned, his jagged teeth glinting in the green light of his home world. His organic components throbbed, flushed with endorphins. _Ah, Animatros. How nice to be home after all this time._

Predacon’s olfactory ports sampled the air, and he savoured the familiar tang of chlorophyll and Energon.

“You mean we have to stay like this for the whole time we’re here?”

The eerie, creepy voice belonged to Insecticon, one of the troops under his command. After Scorponok’s death in the Unicron Battles, Predacon had been given command of his unit. It made sense, after all. Who better to lead the Terrorcons, a bunch of beast-bots, than a mighty Tyrannosaurus Rex, after all?

“Not the whole time – merely while we’re out in the open,” Predacon said. “We have a saying here: Animatros does not suffer robots lightly. You stay in robot mode, your systems will be flooded by the ambient Energon and you’ll fall into stasis lock.”

Battle Ravage growled something, his feline face low to the ground and fierce-looking. Divebomb translated. “He says he doesn’t mind – all the better to kill this way.”

Predacon laughed heartily – he’d always thought a lot of the metal jaguar, even before he came to lead this motley crew. Indeed, Battle Ravage was a creature he’d log ago ear-marked as a potential member of his cult, a being worthy of participation.

They all were, in their own individual ways. Divebomb, Battle Ravage and Insecticon. Cruel Lock especially – oh, did he have _plans_ for the efficient and deadly strategist! Even that dull-witted Buzzsaw and those two hapless Mini-cons, who had been left behind because of their vehicle modes. All would prove useful indeed.

From the moment he’d taken command of this group – from the second they’d heard his passionate oratory – they became loyal followers. They became members of the True Path.

Those of them suitable for the Transmetal process – those worthy of the combined power of metal and flesh – would eventually be reformatted… perhaps even here, on the holy ground of Animatros. Their inner beasts would be freed from their mechanical cages. Those unsuitable… well, cannon fodder was a thankless role, but necessary in times of war.

He well knew what the other Decepticons thought of him. They called him overbearing and dramatic, a fanatic with “unpopular views”. He’d heard it all, and he didn’t care.

Predacon had long known Megatron would one day seek out the Emerald Disk, to merge its power with his own. He’d played the part of the loyal trooper, volunteering his group for the mission as soon as that fool, Vector Prime, dumped his database to the wrong mech. He had no intention of returning the disk to Cybertron, of course. He’d simply taken the free ride home, on an experimental cruiser, to finalise his own agenda.

“Predacon,” Cruel Lock called. “Is that our destination?”

He looked up, crimson eyes locking on to a distant point. Once again he laughed – he could barely stop his chuckling now, so close to the end of his long journey.

“Yes,” he hissed.

As one, they turned to look at the distant volcano, at the star ship poking out from its base.

Insecticon let out a low whistle. “A Vanguard class Deep Space Interceptor,” he murmured, obviously impressed. “The first generation of Cybertronian space travel. Self-sustainable and fully automated. Capable of Transwarp travel. Crew complement of 300 ‘bots. They don’t build them like that anymore.”

“The Ark,” Predacon breathed, adrenalin flooding his biological components. “My Terrorcons, we have come home at last.”


	3. Chapter 3

A sound echoed around them, long and low, like a hungry predator. It seemed to come from somewhere amongst the trees ringing the volcano, but it bounced and reverberated too many times to pinpoint. Battle Ravage tensed, the armour-plated hackles across his back rising.

Predacon said nothing.

Divebomb saw it first and reacted, trusting his instincts. It took less than a second for the condor to move from a gentle hover to a swooping, upwards loop. Even then, he only narrowly avoided the talons of a massive metallic bird of prey. Battle Ravage caught a glimpse of the creature – a blue and red falcon – and gave chase, his jaguar claws tearing up the turf beneath him.

Predacon watched the action to his left, and smiled.

To the right, Cruel Lock felt a breeze on the back of his long, articulated neck a moment before the impact. His assailant – a blue and red cheetah, no doubt the source of the howl – continued past him toward Insecticon. The bug-like Decepticon leapt, straining the limits of his powerful legs, and just managed to clear the snarling beast’s pounce.

Predacon drew back from the fray, dropping into the shade beneath a large tree. Not only was it a respite from the hot green air of Animatros, it was also the perfect vantage point.

Insecticon had avoided the cheetah’s first attack, but not the second. Quicker than his scanners could track, the cat – part metal, part organic – twisted in mid-air and landed, facing the way it came. It lashed out with jagged fore-claws and caught Insecticon across the rear, fortunately across his hard shell.

Cruel Lock popped Energon blades from his knuckles and attacked. The velociraptor was the fastest of all the Terrorcons – faster than even Battle Ravage – so this pussy would be easy prey. Or so he thought. Again, the cat got the better of him by flattening itself to the ground, dropping beneath his attack. It slid on its belly between his legs and whipped him in the face with its tail. Stunned, he barely notice it kick out with its back legs before he fell on his face.

Above, Dive Bomb struggled to elude the falcon. It was agonisingly close on his tail – so close he almost longed for his usual sparring partner, Swoop. At least the Dinobot made a few mistakes. The falcon did not – it was but a length behind and, no matter how he juked or jinked, every missile blast came uncomfortably close to his torso. Battle Ravage, meanwhile, sat on the ground far below, looking feral and yet impotent.

Cruel Lock pulled his head from the ground, clenching his serrated jaws to lock them back in place. He wanted to clamp those jaws down so hard on that cat he could…

 _Wait_ , he thought, his tactician’s mind taking control. _That’s just what they want us to do – fight like wild animals. We’re giving in to base instincts… acting like we appear instead of what we are. These punks are nothing but wild animals, ripe for the slaughter._

“Insecticon!” he called. “Brains!”

The robotic beetle wiggled his stinger once. Words were unnecessary. _You don’t become the most feared unit in the Decepticon army without a book of nasty plays_ , he laughed to himself.

The cat was circling them both, sizing them up for another dash-and-slash. It had unfurled small, jet-propelled wings from its ribcage for extra speed. _Perfect. The less it can see what’s coming, the better. If this thing wants to act like a dumb sack of flesh, it can die like a dumb sack of flesh._

Cruel Lock righted himself, but kept his back to the cat. He waited until he could hear the jet engines activate, until his rear scanners could see the beast surge forward. Cruel Lock waited but a second more before he transformed to robot mode, snatching up his long Energon machete.

He savoured the stunned look on the cat’s face – knowing his foes were all metal, he hadn’t been expecting to face someone in robot mode. Cruel Lock wasn’t planning to give into Energon overload any time soon. As the flabbergasted feline rocketed toward him, he back-stepped lightly and swung his blade, hacking off just one of the little engines.

Another howl – this time of sheer panic – echoed around them. The cheetah cut power to the undamaged engine and dropped like a stone. It ploughed into the soft earth and dense foliage, throwing up plants and dust. Its head dug a trench in the earth, further and further forward, until it rammed into Insecticon’s shell.

The impact was so hard it stunned the beast. For good measure, Insecticon dropped, back-to-back, on the attacker, knocking the wind from its fleshy form. He scuttled n place and planted his stinger against the cheetah’s head. There was a searing hiss and a flash of red embers as the stinger burned a pathway to the brain. Insection then fired his finest invention – the Cerebro Shell – down the new channel.

He slid back to the ground, legs twitching in anticipation. The cheetah snarled and writhed on the ground then, suddenly, went rigid. Its eyes glazed over and its jaw slackened as the shell rebooted its core processor, overriding free will and personality. In seconds, the tiny device had dumped its virulent computer code into the cheetah and left it a passive slave of the Terrorcons.

Insecticon ordered the beast to rise, then transform. Its head split to become hands, while its legs folded under themselves and into shoulder joints. _Its robot head looks a little like that Autobot truck, Rodimus,_ Insection mused. _But it’s got an even dumber expression on its faceplate, if that’s possible._

The beetle sent his new slave trotting over to Cruel Lock. The tactician raised its knuckle daggers and drove them into a soft glob of flesh on the creature’s neck. It did not even flinch as he twisted the blades, drawing blood until the muscle turned black, then purple. He pulled out his weapon and the cheetah stayed still, rigid as a rock formation despite the serious wound.

Cruel Lock transformed back into raptor mode and smiled, all teeth, at Insection. “You got more of those shells? ‘Cause if you do, I think I’m gonna have fun here,” he crowed.

Insecticon cackled, so intoxicated he stumbled over his words. “Yes, plenty more where that came from,” he finally managed. “Enough to provide lots of fleshy bits to play with.”

Under the tree, Predacon allowed himself a small chuckle. He’d had every faith in Cruel Lock, yet hadn’t been sure about Insecticon. Sometimes the beetle-bot seemed so intelligent and, other times, so achingly dense. This was a new side of his trooper – vicious, uncompromising, controlling – and he liked it.

He lifted his head to the skies.

Divebomb was getting frustrated. The falcon was dogging him no matter how he flew, matching. It had even landed a few nasty shots on his left-hand plumage! He couldn’t transform on this dumb planet, couldn’t access his bag of tricks and nasty black-market weaponry.

Battle Ravage, now he could have made mincemeat out of this birdbrain… if he could reach him. Divebomb could see the jaguar down on the ground, pacing and growling, desperate to slag something. All Divebomb had to do was set up a date. If it weren’t for all the damn trees ringing the volcano, he’d have more space to…

 _Trees_. He looked at Battle Ravage and started to laugh. _Birdy, I’m bringing you home to roast._

He made for the trees, wincing at the beating he was about to take. He griped and swore as branch after branch skimmed his beautiful paint job, making jagged chunks in his wax coating and smearing tree sap and other garbage over his intakes.

It would be worth it, though, in about three and a half seconds.

The falcon followed him in blindly, screeching a high-pitched war cry. It must not have been able to use its missiles in such close quarters because it stopped firing, extending razor-sharp talons instead. Divebomb looped back on himself, passing the falcon by inches, and laughed as he dropped under a thick, leafy bough.

The bird flared its wings like air brakes, then turned to follow. It passed under the same leafy bough… giving Battle Ravage the perfect opportunity to drop onto its back.

He’d seen Divebomb head for the trees and knew what to do – same thing they’d done to that arrogant Autobot flyer, Storm Jet, back on Taractus-Nine. Battle Ravage had picked the highest tree he could find, leapt up the bark in moments, then waited. He was good at waiting… he could wait a hundred megacycles if it meant he could kill something.

Riding high on the back of the screaming falcon, Battle Ravage dug in with teeth, claws and the mace on his tail. Blood and circuitry exploded from his victim and rained down on the forest floor. Trees were spattered with crimson while grass was burned by smouldering metal. So many grievous wounds, inflicted so quickly, robbed the falcon of its flight and it plummeted.

Battle Ravage kept rending and tearing until the last possible second, then leapt off and landed neatly as the falcon hit a tree.

He waited for Divebomb to join him. Solitary hunting was the best, but a kill was something to share with friends. The condor-bot landed on his back, claws latching onto well-worn shoulder blades. Together they pranced over and took a look at their feathered friend.

It lay sprawled on the ground, panting for air. It was quite clearly a fembot – from the smooth lines of its legs to its raised, rounded chest. She was missing one leg and both arms, while her wings were tattered, bloody stumps on her back. She was panting for breath, her fleshly breastplate rising and falling as air escaped through several puncture wounds.

Divebomb sighed. “She’s the prettiest thing we’ve ever killed, Battle Ravage,” he said in awe.

The jaguar nodded, then pounced on the remains.

Predacon turned his head from the gruesome spectacle. Not because he lacked the stomach for it – quite the contrary – but because he had more important things to do. A familiar form was emerging from the Ark and he wanted to be at his best to greet it.

The Terrorcons regrouped. Divebomb was clucking over his dented plumage while Battle Ravage chewed on something soft. Cruel Lock stood at attention, listening out for another attack. Insecticon fawned and cooed over his new pet, making the hapless cheetah-robot stand on one leg, and then the other.

Predacon looked over them all, flush with pride. _They are the greatest_ , he thought to himself. _They are True Path, and there are none better. Oh, the things we shall accomplish!_

The creature from the Ark drew up alongside them. Predacon shifted his weight until he could drop to one knee. He bowed his head. Though they knew not whom they addressed, the Terrorcons followed suit – Divebomb ducking his head and raising his wings in a passive gesture.

“My lord Flame Convoy,” Predacon intoned. “We wear the bones of our enemies, and are strong enough to enter your hunting grounds.”

The dragon’s skin blistered and shifting like a bonfire. He looked each of them over in turn, keen red eyes picking out battle scars and appraising systems. He transformed, his golden shoulder spikes glittering in the emerald sunlight.

“Strong?” he asked. “Yes. All of you.”

“Worthy?” He paused, and for a moment the Terrorcons tensed uncomfortably.

“Yes, you are all worthy,” he finished. They relaxed.

“All but one.”

Predacon looked up in shock. Each of his men had performed beyond even his wildest expectations, had taken down Flame Convoy’s guards with utter ruthlessness. How could they not be worthy?

Flame Convoy’s right hand shot out, his fist an orange blur. Huge fingers dug into the cheetah-bot and squeezed. With one swift motion, Flame Convoy tore the zombie’s head from its shoulders, dragging its steel spinal cord along. The structure dipped and danced spastically for a moment then went limp.

The dragon-bot tossed the severed head lightly to one side. His sudden violence was shocking, cruel, even to the Terrorcons. “Welcome to the Ark,” he said, sweeping his arms wide as if to embrace them.

“And welcome home, my dear Predacon,” he said, leering cruelly at the Tyrannosaurus. “Your timing could not be better, as I have need of your science once again.”

\-----

The darkness shifted. Pins of light stabbed into his weakened optics as the thick, black goo evaporated. Grimlock shuddered as first his neck, then his torso, came free of the tar. There was a sucking noise as something grabbed him firmly and hauled him free.

He sat, dazed, on the soil – _above_ the soil, for the first time in millions of years. Grimlock looked up at his rescuer and wanted to cry with frustration. Of all the robots in all the universe, it just _had_ to be Optimus Prime, didn’t it? The very mech he’d disobeyed and stolen a ship from, all to hunt down the missing Mini-cons.

“I’d say something about you being in a sticky situation,” Optimus said, the mirth in his voice obvious, “but I think you’ve had enough torment for one lifetime.”

Grimlock seethed. He hadn’t found the Mini-Cons. Some giant mechanoid had kicked his bumper and entombed him in the tar pit. His boss still got the last word and, to top it all off, his body had been reformatted to resemble some ugly lizard.

Well, that last part had benefits. The ugly lizard had _big freaking teeth_.

He transformed into a Tyrannosaurus Rex, flinging tar and muck over Optimus. Roaring with defiance and fury, Grimlock attacked – catching the Auotobot off-guard. Optimus threw one arm across his body but the Dinobot bit down on it, crushing its delicate neuroceptors. Optimus’ scream of pain was so delicious, so intoxicating that he lashed out, lost in a frenzy of oil and shredded metal…

 _No_ , he told himself furiously. _That not happening. You not on Earth, you not fighting Prime. That was years ago, before Unicron. You here, now, trying to find blasted green disc!_

Grimlock shuddered, fighting off the daydream. He looked at the forest around him, trying to appreciate how the greenery looked against the velvet sunset. Trying and failing.

For the second time in as many days he’d regressed into memory – violent memory – while doing something else. It was almost as if his processors had been hacked and ordered to display every shameful moment, every dark desire. He didn’t know why it was happening, but he didn’t like it.

He also didn’t like being stuck in dinosaur mode. _Dumb, ugly form… badly designed_ , he thought, and not for the first time. He’d long hated turning into a metallic Tyrannosaur, and this planet exacerbated that hatred.

Swoop had saved the day by dragging them back into the _Steelhaven_. He and Swerve had escaped major damage, but only by a few minutes. Swoop – who had been in his pteranodon mode the whole time – was totally unaffected.

Swerve had figured it out… after a fashion.

“I don’t claim to be an expert, but it looks like every chemical compound on this world – from the dirt and grass to the air itself – is charged with Energon,” he’d said.

“We oughta start chewing the plants,” Swoop had chortled.

“This makes no scientific sense whatsoever,” Swerve had continued, “And if either of you tell Downshift this hypothesis, I’ll shoot you. But… I believe the Energon doesn’t affect Transformers with a beast mode. That’s why Swoop was able to save us, and we dropped into stasis-lock.”

Grimlock had disagreed. “Me no egghead, Swerve, but even me know that impossible,” he’d said, sending Swoop – still in his beast mode – into fits of laughter.

“No egghead? Boss you have a gift for understatement” he’d guffawed, almost falling off the chair on which he’d perched. “Being a bird, I know something about eggs and Grimlock, if you were an egg, you’d be a big yolk.”

Even Swerve had laughed at that one, no doubt appreciating the diversion from their predicament.

Grimlock had not been amused. “Energon just energy – it have no sentience or control, can’t avoid one thing and strike another,” he said, clenching anxious fists behind his back. “Better chance of lightning picking its targets.”

“I know that, but it’s the only conclusion available on the evidence,” Swerve had replied, humour fading and frustration returning. “Of course, we could do with more evidence… but this little red car doesn’t have much chance of going outside now, do I?” He’d gone to thump a console with his hand – his delicate, sensor-filled hand – and thought better of it.

In the end, there’s been no choice at all. The Dinobots had to go back out into the world, but stay in their beast modes. Swerve had to stay in the ship, monitoring read-outs from remote probes and trying to direct them to the Planet Key. They were all well and truly out of their element. Swerve’s expertise was metal, not alien biophysics, while the Dinobots were soliders – not explorers.

Grimlock shook his elongated, lizard-like head. This was not going to end well. Particularly if Swoop kept flapping his beak. He’d started prattling like an Earth parrot as they left the _Steehaven_ and had kept it up the whole way.

“Watch out for that tree, boss – I’d hate to have to drag you back from here!”

On and on in his perfect phrasing, his flawless syntax. The same sorts of jokes that made those weakling Autobots just _love_ him.

“Ooh, want me to carry ya across that stream, Grimlock? There might be a little too much Energon in there for your delicate sensor-net!”

Swoop the personable, Swoop the friendly. Never mind he was every inch the rebel Grimlock was, no sir – when he spoke his mind, every sentence was free of ambiguity. His words conveyed his meaning effortlessly, didn’t they?

“Hey Grimlock, you think that volcano over there might be something to check out? I mean, you do know what a volcano is, right? You’ve made it that far in the alphabet?”

Not like dumb old Grimlock, oh no. He may be a brilliant leader and tactician, a warrior of honour and a fighter beyond compare, but nobody paid much attention. It was a bit hard to when your synthesiser dropped every second word and mangled most pronouns, wasn’t it? Better to listen to Swoop instead!

“Gee, boss, are we lost again? Maybe that zap scrambled what was left of your higher functions, eh?”

 _That_ did it.

Grimlock bellowed, well and truly fed up with his self-appointed court jester. The roar changed pitch and turned into a jet of flame – a scalding blast that ate up the distance between them and punched a satisfyingly wide hole in Swoop’s wing. The other Dinobot howled.

“Talk that one off, Mr Dictionary,” he snarled. “Better yet, come down here and fill my mouth with your carcass. That way, you no have to hear me speak no more.”

Swoop dove at him, howling with fury and pain. _Dumb Dino_ , Grimlock thought. _Head full of beryllium baloney, just like always_. He opened his jaws wide, catching his former friend around the head. He started to bite down, already imagining the taste of Swoop’s oil, but the metallic pteranodon had other ideas. Swoop ignited the massive boosters on his back, flinging them both off the grassy hill and back into the forest. Still Grimlock refused to budge, setting his jaw in place and hanging on.

They tumbled, bounced and fell through the forest with a squeal of tortured metal. Grimlock barely registered the sights flashing past his optics, his entire being focused on squeezing the pop rivets out of the joker’s head. Swoop kept screeching and wailing, gasping for air, and the sounds just made Grimlock bite down harder.

Suddenly they stopped bouncing – the forest ended in a sheer cliff face. Before either could react they were in open air, their combined weight too great for Swoop’s depleted boosters and injured wing. They plummeted, then landed with a sickening squelch in something soft, warm and yielding.

The impact made Grimlock loosen his hold. He spat fluid and oil from his mouth and looked around. He was buried up to his waist in some sort of thick, pink goo. Swoop was in front of him, sinking head-first into their landing site. The sights, the smells, were all so familiar but in his fury Grimlock could not quite remember what they were.

It hit him like a runaway space freighter. Corpses. It was a mountain of organic corpses and blood – so very, very much blood. They were sinking in a massive, steaming, stinking pile of dead organic bodies.

Bellowing – this time from disgust – and ignoring the danger, he transformed to robot mode. He hefted his Energon axe in one hand and grabbed Swoop with the other. With blow after blow, he cleaved a path out of the morgue morass, his gleaming metalwork getting saturated by a storm of blood and offal. He kept swinging the axe until they were free – and even for seconds afterwards, until he calmed down enough to transform again.

Safe in his beast mode, he looked back. It was a mountain of animal carcasses, piled almost two kilometres high. Every conceivable creature was there – bats, monkeys, wolves, big cats, lizards, birds and bears. Some were similar to species on earth, others were radically different – not just in colouring but also in form, in structure.

Grimlock realised they hadn’t seen a single native life form since their arrival. Now he knew why. The native species were extinct.

Predators, prey, herbivores and carnivores, all just as dead as one another. Not all – horribly, some of the creatures were still alive. They were missing limbs and organs, or the skin on whole areas of their bodies. Some were just skeletons with still-functioning heads, others were whole save for puncture wounds over missing lungs, or hearts, or livers.

The wastefulness of it sickened Grimlock. Each animal had been torn apart for one reason or another, and no two had suffered the same way. One rhino was missing its legs and horn, still breathing but in agonizing pain, while another was headless yet otherwise complete.

This was no way to die. No way at all.

He gave into rage and opened up his weapons ports. Grief-stricken, he fired munition after munition into the pile, slaughtering the already suffering animals. Giving them a quick death. There was no noise from the pile, no howls of rage – not even when Swoop righted himself and joined in, emptying his machine gun at the grotesque monument. It was as if the beasts welcomed the blasts and would utter no sound against their deliverance.

The pile had become a bonfire, a charred mass beneath a giant black plume, when Grimlock finally stopped firing. He sank to his dinosaur knees, small fore-claws covering his crimson eyes. Had he tear ducts he would have wept. He was a warrior with no time for weakness – but he had no stomach for senseless slaughter, either. The animals were just like the unit Megatron had wiped out centuries ago – innocent, unsuspecting warriors, cut down for no sane reason.

Swoop nudged him with his beak. The pteranadon had a piece of metal gripped in his talons. A piece of metal bearing the Decepticon symbol. Grimlock’s grief was swept away by a flood of anger and bitterness.

“Decepticons,” he growled, his voice so low and fearful even Swoop took a tottering step backward. “No matter where the world, they still make no sense. Always come and consume, waste and destroy.

“Suffered their madness too long. Time it ended. We hunt them down, dump their bodies in pile, but we Autobots – so we leave no one in the pile alive.”

The pteranodon nodded once, resolutely. Their argument was forgotten, their fluids boiling in time with one another. Grimlock turned and began to stalk back to the _Steelhaven_. They would repair, recharge and reload. Then, they would have retribution.

\-----

Static filled the screen, and frustration flooded Swerve’s processor. “Dammit!” he yelled for the seventeenth time.

He was used to working with his hands. He’d go out, in the field, and quite literally get his hands dirty. Bury his fingertip sensors into the rock and the soil, sifting out whatever the Autobots needed. He’d been able to find deutronum for Downshift that day in Kalis, just like he’d unearthed a diamond for Misha one day on Earth. Okay, so he had been showing off, but that wasn’t the point – the point was he needed to be _out there_!

For the first time in his entire existence, Swerve hated being a car. Sure, he’d bemoaned his alternate form once or twice before… usually after driving into an inanimate object at high speed. Never before, though, had he truly _despised_ his four-wheeled form.

He did now, because it kept him locked in the ship. Locked in the ship, launching probe after probe, getting just tiny bits of data before they overloaded in the atmosphere and shorted the frell out!

He went to punch a console again and caught himself. No sense damaging the sensors – it was a long way back to Earthbase and Red Alert’s repair bay. CR chambers could do a lot but they couldn’t fix something like his specialist hands. Better to keep his temper and do what he could from here.

Swerve launched another probe – number 18 – and turned back to the scanners. The bulb-shaped device swept out to the west, higher and higher into the night sky. Swerve had been getting the most use out of them by flinging them high and bringing them low, using their parabola path to gather what he could.

It was to be Number 18’s destiny too… until the little probe’s spotlight caught something familiar. _Cybertronian alloy_ , Swerve breathed, puzzled and excited at the same time. _But from what?_ He took manual control, expertly guiding Number 18 toward the source of the tell-tale resonance waveform.

It was a ship, a survey vessel, its exterior badly burned and melted from years of Energon exposure. That sort of ship had been in use before the war. Shortly before Megatron’s insurrection their former leader, Sentinel Prime, had ordered hundreds of these two-bot vessels be sent out in search of alternative energy sources. Energon was running short at the time, so anything would be of help.

Swerve grew melancholy. He’d been due to go on one of those trips himself, but had been struck down by _corodia gravis_. It had been only a mild case, easily cured by a transfusion from his twin brother, Blur… but it had robbed him of his chance to see the galaxy. _Until now, anyway_. Swerve could still remember how excited he was, finding out he and his best friend had been assigned to the same ship, the _Xerxes_.

His optics telescoped in surprise as the probe’s light skimmed the surface of the downed ship. _Xerxes_ , read the legend beneath the cockpit. Swerve’s pumps quickened. _Overhaul!_ he cried internally. _If this is our ship – your ship – then where are you? Are you somewhere on this beastly planet?_

From behind him came the sound of breaking glass. He spun in his chair and tried to peer into the depths of the ship. “Grimlock?” he called, frightened by how small his voice sounded. “Swoop? Are you guys back? Is the door jammed?”

No response.

Swerve rose from his chair. He was feeling very uneasy – and suddenly very vulnerable. He started to make his way to the ship’s armoury, a place he could grab a pulse rifle or three, just in case. Inwardly he cursed his decision to shut down all non-essential systems… the inside of the _Steelhaven_ was as dark as the world beyond its hull.

The growl came from his right, and he turned to face its source. Yellow eyes pierced the darkness. They moved forward into the light, and Swerve could see they were set into a long, lupine face. White and blue metal gleamed, steel lips parted to display a set of slavering fangs. Powerful legs ended in brilliant golden claws.

He caught sight of something unexpected and totally welcomed – an Autobot symbol set into the metal wolf’s neck. “A Transformer, an Autobot!” Swerve exclaimed, relieved. “Thank the Matrix! If I had to meet anyone new here, at least it’s an…”

The wolf snarled, the violence of the sound silencing the metallurgist. He was silent but for a second. As the wolf leapt at him, fangs aimed for his neck, Swerve let loose a cry of sheer terror.


	4. Chapter 4

Something caught his foot, upsetting his balance and toppling him. Swerve screamed in terror, convinced the beast had finally sunk its claws into him. His assailant, however, was nothing more than a storage cube that had fallen onto the floor.

Swerve picked himself up and kept running.

He’d been running for cycles, dashing through the darkened corridors of the _Steelhaven_ as fast as he could manage. Transforming to car mode would have given him greater speed and manoeuvrability, not to mention headlights. They were luxuries he could not afford on account of his pursuer – a metallic wolf. A wolf with the yellow eyes to see headlights glinting, the precise nose for smelling exhaust, the keen ears to pick up engine noise.

Not to mention the fact he was more accident prone in car mode than as a robot. His foot snagged on a half-opened door and he tripped once more. _Mind you, I’d be hard pressed to do worse than I am_ , he wailed internally.

Swerve had been on the verge of a breakthrough – the discovery of a downed Cybertronian ship, here on this distant world – when the wolf smashed its way in and went for his fuel pump. He’d dodged that lethal charge but been cut off from the armoury in the process. Right now he was trying to double-back, using his knowledge of the ship to loop around to the locker containing his twin pulse rifles. He didn’t want to hurt the metal wolf, even though the animal had no such feelings towards him.

He rounded a corner. The _Steelhaven_ was a tall, needle-shaped ship whose internal corridors most resembled a spiral. Even in the dark he knew where he was – one walkway separated him from his goal. Flagging spirits buoyed, he stepped onto the metal bridge… and almost wailed aloud.

The wolf was waiting for him. And it was _grinning_.

Its steel lips spread further, the grin widening to reveal even more jagged teeth. A thin sliver of drool – motor oil, Swerve guessed – slid between the fangs and dripped onto the walkway. The beast tensed, raised its armoured hackles and growled.

Swerve reached out gingerly for a weapon… a box, a metal rod, a loose thermonuclear missile… but found nothing. He bunched his sensor-filled hands into fists. He hated one-on-one violence, especially any that threatened his delicate fingertip instruments, but would not resile from it.

Especially when his life was on the line.

The wolf pounced and knocked him to the floor. Its breath stank of rotted plants as it snapped, again and again, at his neck. Swerve jammed one of his fingers into its eyes and activated his mini-spotlight. The wolf howled, blinded, and its weight shifted. That gave Swerve just enough leverage to roll them both over and clamour on top of his attacker, gripping both its forelimbs and pushing them down.

The limbs jerked as the wolf transformed, its head turning into a balled fist. Swerve reeled from the punch and fell off as the wolf completed its transformation. Addled, he still noticed its form – even as a robot it was vaguely lupine – and the weapon it carried – a long-barrelled missile launcher. The beast’s finger tightened around the trigger. Swerve steeled his resolve. He’d lost, but he would not give this brute the satisfaction of hearing him beg.

“That just about enough of that, me reckon,” came a voice from above. Startled, the wolf looked up… just in time for Grimlock to drop onto him, feet-first. Swerve’s fuel pump sang. The Dinobots were back!

Standing tall in robot mode and gripping his Energon axe, Grimlock regarded the prone form at his feet. “Don’t make ‘em too tough on this world, eh?” he muttered. “See how its neck holds up to a blade…”

“Grimlock, no!” Swerve cried. “It’s an Autobot!”

The Dinobot looked closer, his head craning slightly as he took in the red badge on the wolf’s neck. “Ttt,” he muttered. “With friends like these, who need enemies?”

He stepped off the unconscious wolf-bot. A moment later, Swoop joined them, transforming to robot mode as he set down on the walkway. “Guess we picked a good time to come back,” he sniffed. “We’d have jumped in sooner, but…”

“But Birdbrain flew too high,” Grimlock snarled. Swoop bristled at the remark and growled back. The two came nose-to-nose, slavering for a fight, before Swerve could interject. He thrust himself between them, calling their names, and they calmed down. Somewhat.

Swerve didn’t stop to wonder why the two best friends were on hair triggers. Instead, he dropped down to examine their captive. Just above its face plate, on the crown of its brow, he found two rough holes. He was no Red Alert but he knew Transformer biology – the holes corresponded with the processor chips for memory and impulse control.

“Someone’s lobotomised this guy,” he said aloud, drawing the Dinobots’ attention. “That’s why he attacked… I’ll bet he doesn’t even realise he’s a Transformer any more.”

“Just a snarling beast,” Grimlock said. “Snarl – make good name for him, if we fix him and keep him as pet.”

Swoop scoffed. “Pfft. That’d be about as clever as naming you ‘T-Wrecks’ or something. Idiot.”

Swerve frowned. “Not sure about any of that, but fixing him sounds like a good idea.” He tried to lift the prone Transformer and found he could not. “Let’s get ‘Snarl’ here to a CR chamber and see what we can do. He may even be able to help us.”

Swoop elbowed them aside and threw the wolf-bot over his shoulder. “I’ll do it… Grimlock here has some funny ideas about helping friends out, these days.” He started back to the main control room, leaving behind a puzzled Autobot metallurgist and a furious Dinobot commander.

\-----

The humid corridors of the Ark were a tonic to Predacon. He’d spent too much time on Cybertron’s sterile, metallic plains and on Earth (which was similar to his home, but not close enough to count). He’d almost forgotten the sweet tang of the Energon-rich hunting grounds.

He admired his robot mode, reflected in the golden corridor. Utter perfection. A fusion of flesh and metal into one technorganic whole – the pinnacle of the Transmetal process, the science he had designed. The process by which the Purple Masks of Animatros could assume robot forms in the open without falling prey to Energon overload.

He turned and looked at his troops, his Terrorcons. “Now we are here,” he said, “in the golden halls of our genesis. And so comes the time for me to tell you a parable, a tale of ascension. It is time for me to give you a testament of Transmetal perfection.”

The Terrorcons transformed to their robot modes and fixed their optics on him. They sat down and paid rapt attention, waiting for the sermon. He knew they had been waiting for this moment, longing for their chance to become Transmetals. He’d teased them for so long, judging their worthiness to come to Animatros and take on flesh. Now, they were ready to be perfected.

Predacon could feel Flame Convoy’s eyes on his back. His audience now captive, he spoke the sermon… the ideology that revealed the past while, at the same time, obscured it. As he spoke he thought back – past the myths he had created, past the flowery words, and into the core of it all.

It had been a simple enough idea. If the organics around them were unaffected by Animatros’ energy, why not incorporate organics into their bodies? His experiments had hit on a way to meld Transformer with animal. The process perfected and completed, the Purple Masks had been able to walk proudly through the world, conquering all they found.

“Flame Convoy saw what had been done, and it was good,” Predacon intoned, bowing his head in deference. “Pleased with the labours of his pack, he bestowed upon them his greatest boon.”

The Transmetal process had an unexpected side effect – the Force Chips. Suddenly they could manifest the green discs that boosted their strength, agility and speed. It also heightened their bestial natures, increasing their aggression and violence. The chips were eternal but the organics had to be replaced periodically. That was of little consequence – there was always another dumb beast ready to be killed for the glory of the Transmetals.

“But lo,” he said, letting a false mourning creep into his voice, “there were those who did not want the bounty of our lord’s generosity.”

Some had objected – most notably Flame Convoy’s traitorous lieutenant, Fang Wolf. The dog-bot had always been scheming, always searching for the quick path to power and leadership of the pack. He’d never understood why Flame Convoy tolerated the lupine, why Fang Wolf had outranked him.

It had turned out all right in the end – Fang Wolf and a small group had rebelled and became hunted outcasts. Somehow they learned to manifest Force Chips _without_ organics and fought back. Predacon could almost see the fools parading in front of his optics… fools like Saidos and that cursed Ligerjack. The Red Masks.

“The jealousy of those fallen from paradise mattered little,” his voice soared. “For as they sought their place in the world, our lord Flame Convoy sank his claws into the means to their end… by walking on a lake of liquid fire.”

Use of their own chips had led the Purple Masks to discover the Master Disc – what Predacon now realised to be one of the missing Planet Keys – deep in the volcano. Flame Convoy had seized it from the centre of a molten lava lake, claiming it for himself and ascending to near godhood in the process.

The defeat of the Red Masks was but a matter of time… though Predacon did not get to see it. He had left Animatros soon after the rebellion, charged with a “holy crusade” – taking the Transmetal process out into the universe to convert more followers to the True Path.

“I did soar out into the blackness and I did see such life, such wonders,” he preached. “But nothing did I see as beautiful, as pure, as true, as the Transmetals of Animatros. As the holiest of all, Flame Convoy.”

He’d used the Ark’s sole functioning shuttle to return to Cybertron (his true home world despite his reluctance to admit it) and bring the word of his spiritual home… the planet on which he had been reborn.

Now he had gathered his followers and brought them back – not for the Planet Key, which he knew Megatron coveted. No, he was here to present the devout to their god, the lord Flame Convoy, and have them at last anointed with flesh.

The sound of applause snapped him out of his devout trance. “Well spoken, Predacon, well spoken indeed,” Flame Convoy smiled, clapping his claws together. “Truly, you have served me well out in the universe. You have brought me fine disciples, and returned to your lord in his time of need. Now come, I would have words with you.

“Terrorcons!” he roared, snapping the four beast-bots to attention. “This place is now your home. Treat it as such until I send for you, and make you as perfect as I am.” He waved an orange claw in a gesture of dismissal and the four slowly backed away, their heads bowed. Predacon’s organs flushed with pride. He had taught them so well.

Flame Convoy drew close. “I am truly happy with your work,” he whispered, “I did not speak lightly. It is not for the converts to know, but now is a time of great trial, and I see your return as a form of deliverance. Potentially.”

“What can I do?” Predacon asked, both concerned and excited. He was sure he could solve the problem – given his access to the latest Cybertronian technology – and anticipated praise for doing so.

He recoiled as something orange and serpentine raced toward him, jaws snapping. He stepped back and could see it was a head – a scaled, angry-eyed head – coming out of Flame Convoy’s right shoulder!

The second head slithered in the air, snapping and striking at Predacon. He looked to his leader – Flame Convoy’s expression was blank, his eyes white and hollow. Then colour faded back into them and he turned, as if waking from sleep, and spoke.

“No, you’re wrong – he _can_ be trusted with this knowledge.”

“My lord?” Predacon asked hesitantly. “Are you speaking to me?”

“You’re always too suspicious, too untrusting,” Flame Convoy continued. “Predacon has always been loyal to us… not like that mongrel cur, Fang Wolf… and we need him for this.”

Predacon’s jaw slackened. Flame Convoy was talking _to the head_!

With a hiss and a snap, a _third_ head flipped up from Flame Convoy’s left shoulder. It did not strike out at Predacon but instead smiled at him, forked tongue flickering playfully, as it swayed in the air.

“You see?” Flame Convoy said, jerking a thumb at the new head. “He understands – he always understands,” he chuckled. “You’re so negative. You would do well to listen to him once in a while, learn from his approach.”

The two serpents paused, then hissed at one another. They continued hissing as they sank slowly down. Predacon could only watch as they coiled backwards and latched to his leader’s spine, just below his shoulder blades. _What in the Pit were those things?_

“Come with me,” Flame Convoy said, turning and walking toward a room. He acted as if he hadn’t spontaneously grown two heads… and had a conversation with them.

Feeling weak and ill, Predacon followed and entered the killing floor, the very place where he had devised the Transmetal process. Here, he had brought beast after beast and fused them into himself, his brethren, and made them powerful.

His machinery was still in the room, pulsing and throbbing with Energon. It looked something like a plant – the recipient stood in the “trunk” while the donors were locked into pod-like chambers that were suspended from stalks. Predacon looked up at the pods, and felt ill all over again.

There were specimens locked inside. Not animals, not the dumb beasts that roamed the planet, but _Transformers_. He could hear them screaming – Dinoshout and Terrashaver, two loyal Purple Masks. They were clawing and tearing at their bonds to no avail. They caught sight of Predacon and called his name, pleading for rescue.

Flame Convoy entered the “trunk” of the machine. Mute with horror, Predacon watched as his leader started the Transmetal process. As the machinery started its activation cycle, the serpentine heads flipped up and, as one, hissed with pleasure.

There was a blinding flash, a rush of vacuum force and two howls of utter suffering. The screams went silent long before the pods opened to disgorge the defleshed husks of Dinoshout and Terrashaver. The corpses, now little more than a hail of bones and struts, clattered to the floor. Predacon cautiously examined his erstwhile comrades – they were dead, their Sparks extinguished as their bodies were pulled apart.

Flame Convoy came over to him. The dragon-bot was bristling with power, his body now deeper shades of black, red and orange. Yellow highlights danced through his bodywork just as Energon tore through the skies. The beast opened his mouth and roared, the concussive force almost deafening Predacon and rattling the bones at their feet.

“As we were saying,” Flame Convoy said, suddenly calm, “we are out of specimens for the Transmetal process. Those were the last two beasts on Animatros.”

 _Beasts?_ Predacon cried inside. _They were Transformers! And who is “we”? What is going on?_

“We need a new way to retain our power. _Find it_. Or we will be forced to consume you next.”

\-----

The damage was surprisingly minor. It took the CR chamber less than one Earth hour to knit the wolf-bot’s brow and make him physically whole. The chamber’s diagnostic program said the damage was old – vorns old – and likely inflicted by a claw or a fang.

The effect of the damage was widespread. Just a few moments of conversation made it clear to Grimlock that their patient was something of a partial amnesiac.

“I… thank you for your help,” the wolf-bot said. Its voice was slow and gutteral, like it was having trouble forming words. “What happened to me?”

“Hoping you could tell us,” Grimlock said lightly. He was standing over the beast, lightly tapping his Energon axe on one palm. “You wear Autobot symbol but you come busting in here, attack my troops. Care to explain?”

Lupine lips twisted. “Auto… bot? It is a word that means nothing to me,” the wolf-bot murmured. “There is a reason for my mark, my badge, but I do not know it.” He shook his head, one hand absently touching his repaired brow. “There is so much I do not know. My name, my place, my purpose.”

“Been calling you Snarl,” Grimlock offered. “Can use that if you like.”

“Snarl,” their patient repeated the word. “It seems… appropriate somehow. Yes, you may call me Snarl.”

Grimlock bristled. _We may call him Snarl? Oh, marvellous day!_ He saw Swoop react in a similar way. _This guy got some bearings to cop attitude after what he did. And what about that lah-de-dah speech? Then again, maybe he still too addled to realise how much trouble he really in._

Swerve spoke up. “Unfortunately, um, Snarl, your memories are going to have to wait,” he said, then turned to Grimlock. “I did a quick sweep of the ship’s hull integrity – the Energon is affecting it, and badly.”

“How long?”

“If we don’t want the _Steelhaven_ to break up on take-off, then we need to find the Planet Key and be out of here in… about 24 earth hours.”

Grimlock sighed loudly. “It never easy, is it?” He was frustrated again – he wanted to find the damn key, sure, but he also wanted to teach the Decepticons a lesson. He wanted to pay them back for the massacre of the animals and vent some of his fury on their sorry chasses.

“This key you search for,” Snarl murmured, almost inaudibly. “Does it look like this?”

There was a green glow, a flash of light, and then Snarl held a disc in his hands. One end tapered into a key-like structure while the other was edged with silver trim. A silver logo was embossed on its centre – a stylised claw.

Swoop nodded. “Looks like the disc Vector Prime gave to Downshift and the rest when they headed off,” he said. “But he told ‘em the one they were looking for had gold edges.”

“Gold!” Snarl exclaimed, leaping up from his seat. His sudden movement knocked Swerve backward, while Grimlock shifted his grip on his axe. “The volcano – the Purple Masks have the green-and-gold disc in the volcano! Deep in the mountain of fire... the only place where the non-flesh can be robots again. Flame Convoy has it!”

“Who’s Flame Convoy?” Swoop asked. “An’ what’s a Purple Mask?”

Snarl fell silent. His shoulders sagged. “I… don’t know,” he said mournfully. “That all came back to me but now it’s gone, gossamer threads.” He slumped back into the chair. “I’m useless.”

Grimlock studied him for a moment. He knew what “useless” felt like. He keenly remembered being trodden on, counted out, talked down to just because of who he was. He remembered the stares and accusations that followed a rage, a lashing out at a fellow Autobot.

He also knew the value of second chances.

“Not useless,” Grimlock said resolutely. “You remember where Key is, you have a beast mode and you can hold a blaster. If you can fight, then you coming with us to the volcano. We have job to do, and payback to dish out.”

Swoop screeched. “You can’t be serious! He tries to fillet Swerve and you’re making him part of the team?”

“Desperate times and desperate measures,” Grimlock snapped back. “Besides, we stomped him once and can do again if needed… provided you no overshoot the mark when the crunch come.”

They scowled at one another.

“I’ll do it,” Snarl offered. “It feels… right… to be going up against the Purple Masks. Proper. My claws are in your service.”

Swerve paced back to the control deck. He was obviously worried about the new recruit, but to his credit said nothing. He called Grimlock over and spoke in hushed tones.

“Before our visitor arrived, I found something,” he whispered. “A Cybertron exploration ship, sent out before the war started. A good friend of mine and another scientist were on-board when it left Iacon.”

Grimlock knew where the metallurgist was heading. “A friend? That long ago? In this place and with the Energon?”

“I know it sounds crazy… but if anyone could have survived here, it would be Overhaul,” Swerve said. “He was my best friend and, in a lot of ways, my bodyguard. Other ‘bots said he was all brawn and no brains but they didn’t know him properly. He was tough, practical, and overcame whatever obstacle you put in his way… even if he had to go through it.”

Swerve paused. “All I’m saying is, keep an optic out. Please?”

Grimlock looked down at the Autobot. He’d always thought of Swerve as a tag-along, a weak little science geek who just wanted to hang around with the big, tough Dinobots. Now he understood the metallurgist – in Grimlock and Swoop he saw something of his lost friend, this Overhaul, and felt… safe. He was surprised to find he suddenly felt proud, even protective, of the red car who just couldn’t drive straight.

“We look,” he said, his taciturn tone betraying none of his thoughts. “Quick look, because we not have much time. No promises.”

“Thank you,” Swerve whispered.

Grimlock raised up to his full height and addressed the warriors. “Swerve will stay here, get ship ready and work on some way to transfer Planet Key,” he barked. “If everything else on this world charged with Energon, bet key will be too. That problem we don’t need in mid flight.

“For rest of us…” he grinned cruelly. “We off to volcano. In my book, Purple Mask equal Decepticon. That being so… it time to munch metal.”

\-----

Insection was getting restless. They’d had the sermon and heard the word, so where the frell was the anointing of flesh? When were they getting the grand power they’d been promised for so long?

_And when can I complete my real mission, once and for all?_

They had taken over a small chamber on the opposite side of the ship, cooling off after the thrill of the fight and the excitement of meeting their “god”. Battle Ravage was dozing lightly in a corner while Divebomb meditated alongside him. Cruel Lock was sharpening his Energon blade, honing it with a small, dark whetstone he had found somewhere outside.

Insecticon was about to settle in for more of a wait when the door slid open. Predacon practically fell into the room, near breathless. His chest was heaving – both heart and fuel pump pounding visibly – and the flesh on his faceplate was white.

“By the Pit,” he breathed, staring at them with wide optics. “He’s gone mad.”

Battle Ravage and Divebomb stirred. Cruel Lock spoke for them all. “Gone mad? Who has?”

“Flame Convoy,” Predacon whispered, the disbelief in his voice echoing around the chamber. “His mind has snapped – his obsession with flesh has become overwhelming.” He shook his head. “The True Path is about balance, a melding of metal and flesh to create technoganic perfection. He’s taken it too far… convinced himself he needs to be more biological than mechanical in order to obtain power. Prepared to kill his own – kill us – to further his ends.”

The Terrorcons stared at one another. This was not what they had expected – not at all. Since the loss of Scorponok, they been devoted to Predacon and his teachings, had lived for the day they would be taken to Animatros and be made perfect. Now they had arrived in paradise and found it tainted with heresy… and tarred with the stink of personal fatality.

Something rumbled, deep within Battle Ravage’s throat. The rumble went on, growing in intensity and turning into a visceral roar. Divebomb, as always, translated.

“He’s quoting the teachings of the True Path. He says _Flesh alone is the weakest of all, metal no stronger. Balance is the way, the melding of two words – to be all flesh, or all metal, is to be prey_.”

Insecticon watched as the other Terrorcons nodded their silent assent, then joined in himself. Appearances, after all, had to be kept up.

Finally, Predacon spoke. “Your wisdom is sound, Battle Ravage,” he said quietly, “as is your counsel. We are trapped, my Terrorcons, between two worlds of ignorance. In the one claw we have Megatron, who resents our technorganic purity and wants our power for himself. In the other we have Flame Convoy, who through his madness has revealed himself to be a false god, one so drunk with power he forsakes the metal and clothes himself in the weakness of pure flesh.”

His voice rose, higher and higher, whipping his cult into a frenzy. “Our path, the True Path, is clear – as it always is. We shall suffer no more under the yoke of mechanised oppression. Nor shall we chafe at the bit of an insane, fallen deity. Today, we close both claws and crush all our enemies and then, with free hands, take the power of the Planet Key for ourselves!”

Cruel Lock cheered, Divebomb swore testimony, Battle Ravage roared. Insecticon, for his part, said nothing but tried to look euphoric.

“Today, Flame Convoy is our prey,” Predacon snarled, his confidence and ego reasserting themselves. “And tomorrow, we hunt Megatron!”


	5. Chapter 5

He folded his arms behind his back as he paced. Powerful strides carried him quickly across his throne room and back again. Every time he passed the middle of the room, he could feel the heat slipping through the crack in the wall… the secret door to the source of his power. The delicious heat sent endorphins rushing through his biological components. Flame Convoy was content. For the moment, at least.

 _We will remain content so long as Predacon performs his task_ , his right-head reminded him as it swung up. _If he fails…_

 _If he fails then we will consume his flesh for ourselves,_ his left-head snapped as it rose, ever the voice of reason and patience.

 _And once he, too, is gone? What then?_ the left-head demanded.

 _Use your imagination,_ the right-head crooned. _Predacon arrived on a ship, came here with followers. If there is no more flesh on Animatros then we will take those disciples and find a new hunting ground. A new world, full of new species to consume._

The heads flipped down. Flame Convoy grinned, his lower incisors poking out over his bottom lip. Such wisdom he possessed, such ambition… it was wrong for him to limit himself to one world. If Predacon could find followers then he – the god of the Transmetals – could raise armies! No matter his lieutenant’s actions, he decided, it was time to leave Animatros and spread his magnificence across the cosmos.

He turned to leave the chamber, but found his followers already there, behind him, clad in their magnificent beast modes! Flame Convoy smiled, pleased with these creatures. Though metal they may still be, they were ever so close to perfection.

“My children,” he boomed, clawed hands spread wide. “I have made a most wonderful decision!”

“Ain’t that a coincidence?” Cruel Lock replied, gnashing his teeth. “We’ve just made a decision of our own.”

As one, the Terrorcons laughed… then _pounced_.

\-----

Grimlock watched as Snarl paused at the edge of the tree line. The wolf seemed uneasy. His metal hackles rose and fell, his ears were swept back and his tail was limp.

“Problems?” The Dinobot asked.

Snarl paused to gulp a mouthful of air. “This place, this exact spot,” he whispered. “It seems familiar. Bad. It reeks of _huntnomore_. Of death.” He tossed his head. “Something happened to me here, something terrible… but I don’t know what it was.”

“Too bad you don’t turn into an elephant,” Swoop said, perching in a tree just behind them. “I hear they never forget. It’d make a nice change from you being a looped recording and all.”

Grimlock stomped one foot on the ground, hard. The impact reverberated up into the tree, shaking Swoop loose. The pteranodon fell unceremoniously to the ground, landing – as usual – head first amongst the tree roots.

“Hope you stand your ground better than you hold your perch, Swoop, because big fight coming,” Grimlock sniggered.

Swoop sat up and hissed, red eyes gleaming. He rose his wings in a threatening manner and began to stalk, on his clawed feet, toward Grimlock. Snarl saw the movement and leapt in the way, lips drawing back to reveal gleaming fangs. He dropped his head and growled a threat, which was answered by a screech from Swoop.

The sight intoxicated Grimlock, filled him with a lust for battle. Not just against Swoop, but against Snarl as well. He wanted to stomp them both, grind their bolts into metal filings. Show that he was the leader, the dominant animal, head of their pack. Smash them to…

 _What me thinking?_ said a voice inside. _They my warriors – my friends! This just like those daydreams, all about violence… about wanting to rip into things like some kind of wild animal._

He cursed himself for a fool. For someone who complained he was treated like an idiot, he was achingly slow on the uptake sometimes. The answer had been right in front of his optics all along – their beast modes were taking over!

The ambient Energon swirling around them affected metal, but not organics. It affected humanoid robots, but not beast Transformers. And the longer they stayed in beast mode, the more animalistic they became.

_Two days. Been here just two days. How far down evolutionary ladder we already fallen?_

This planet did not only affect them physically, it also attacked them emotionally. It drew out their deepest, darkest shame and forced them to act on it, to become enraged and behave like slavering beasts!

Swerve was wrong. They didn’t have 24 hours. They had no time at all.

“Stop!” he roared savagely. “This all making sense now!”

They turned to him, faces dark with hatred. Grimlock frowned. This would be hard enough to explain without a speech impediment.

“Snarl’s memory gone because of effect of this planet,” he said. “It turns you into beast – in the brain, I mean. Bring out the worst of you. Snarl’s head already damaged so it do even worse to him. Removed all intelligence, made him true animal.

“Swoop, on you and me it work differently. Bring out my temper, my rage and self-loathing. And you… you always needle ‘bots, have a dig, but not like this. With you, planet bring out your most critical side, make you sarcastic and cruel. That why we fight yesterday, and almost now – this planet want us to fight, to be beasts, to struggle to be alpha male of pack.”

Swoop nodded, realisation dawning. “What do we do?” he asked. “How do we stop it?”

“We keep calm,” Snarl offered. “We focus on our inner selves, not our outer trappings. No matter the lure, no matter the bait, we maintain harmony.”

Something whistled past them and exploded against a tree – a concussion missile. Below, Flame Convoy burst through the side of the volcano. Grimlock was startled to see the Terrorcons attacking the giant dragon, tag-teaming their strikes and tearing strips of flesh and metal from his hide.

“So much for staying calm,” he quipped, and rushed toward the battle.

\-----

He was so proud of them.

Standing back from the battle, watching from the entrance to the Ark, Predacon admired the lethality of his Terrorcons. The Flame Convoy he remembered was the sort of ‘bot capable of taking down ten enemies at a time. Now he was likely more powerful (certainly more insane), yet he had his claws full with the Decepticon unit.

Cruel Lock was too fast. Divebomb was too evasive. Insecticon was too devious. Battle Ravage, meanwhile, was simply too deadly. The jaguar’s claws and teeth were dripping with blood and flesh, every morsel ripped wholesale from Flame Convoy’s hide.

He was so proud of them, yet he was realistic. Flame Convoy may have been a mad deity but he was still a god – with all the power the title implied. Shock was the Terrorcons’ true ally at this point. As soon as the dragon accepted the idea of rebellion (which was taking longer than Predacon had thought… must be the extra heads), his followers were dead.

Time, then, for him to act.

He stepped lightly down the golden hallway, headed straight for the throne room and the “secret” door. The Planet Key would be his in a matter of moments and then he would interface with it. In one single action, he’d drain Flame Convoy of his divinity and gain the power to topple Megatron and rule Cybertron. All in a matter of steps…

“You know, me would usually come up with snappy remark right now.”

The voice came from behind him.

“Something cool and memorable. Real action-hero line. Threatening and memorable all at once.”

Predacon glanced over his shoulder, and his heart sank. Grimlock stood behind him, his robot form brimming with power.

“Truth is, me surprised to find you here. So tell you what: we skip that today, okay? Go right to part where I tear off your head and pour antifreeze down your neck.”

“I will not be denied!” Predacon raged, transforming into beast mode and charging the heathen. To his amazement, Grimlock actually started laughing. He, too, transformed, and the two Tyrannosaurs – one metal, one Transmetal – collided with a furious force.

Predacon fired the machine guns in his forearms, but the bullets bounced uselessly off the Dinobot’s armour. Grimlock made a coughing sound and brought up fire. Thinking fast, Predacon unfurled the wheels from his feet and flipped open his side-mounted fan engines, skating out of range on jets of wind. He kept going, travelling backwards but facing forward, moving far away from Grimlock.

“Fighting you does me no good, Grimlock,” he called, grinning. “Not at this precise moment, anyway. If you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a green disc. After that, I’ll be more than happy to accommodate you.”

“Always make own accommodation arrangements, thanks,” Grimlock bellowed as a panel on his back lifted up. From beneath the armoured flap rose a galaxial rocket launcher – a black tube with a solid gold projectile.

The weapon fired and Predacon instantly lost sight of its payload – its colour blended into the corridors. He couldn’t see it, but he certainly felt its impact. The non-explosive slug caught him right between the eyes and robbed him of balance, sending him crashing to the floor.

Grimlock was on him in two bounds, teeth digging into the soft flesh around his synthesiser. Predacon struggled to fight him off, couldn’t, and so transformed back to robot mode. With quick movements he grabbed hold of his tail – now changed into an electrified whip – and swung wildly. Though inelegant, the attack caught Grimlock full force, knocking him off and away.

Predacon rose to his feet and lashed out twice more. The serrated claw at the end of the whip snagged and tore at the Dinobot’s armour. He heard a brief hiss of static – a voice? – coming from somewhere near Grimlock’s ear, and silenced it with a third strike.

“Well then, if you insist,” Predacon snarled, “I’ll put my plans to one side and kill you first!”

\-----

He was missing _something_ , but he’d be damned if he could figure out what it was!

Swerve had studied everything. Deep impact probes, surface scans, waveform refractions, sonar imaging read-outs. Nothing. There was no scientific rhyme or reason to Animatros, no equation that linked all of its wildly varying phenomena.

Grimlock had called him, mid-charge, about the planet’s effect on their personalities. That explained why the Dinobots’ in-fighting and why Snarl had gone from primitive to noble savage in the space of minutes. Maybe the planet’s Energon didn’t affect beast mode Transformers because it was trying to encourage animalistic behaviour?

 _I’m useless_ , he told himself. _I’m not an engineer like Downshift – I don’t know how things work. I’m not a scientist like Red Alert, I can’t look at all the variables and see the unifying theory. And I’m sure as heck not a detective like Nightbeat… I’m surrounded by clues and I can’t see a pattern anywhere. All I know is metal and rock, and that’s doing a fat lot of good right now!_

Swerve bashed his head on the console. Twice. Three times. It felt good, so he considered going for a fourth.

_Deep in the mountain of fire... the only place where the non-flesh can be robots again._

What was that?

It tugged at his memory. Snarl had said it during his brief flash of memory. He was talking about the Planet Key, saying it was in the volcano – the only place “where the non-flesh can be robots again”.

Swerve slapped himself in the forehead. He’d spent so much time belittling himself, chiding himself for not being an engineer or scientist that he’d ignored his own calling. He’d thought about the manufactured metal but not the natural substances – the very things he’d spent his lifetime cataloguing and studying.

Metallurgy! The answer had been in _his_ area of expertise all along!

He checked the data again, this time looking through his own eyes – filtering read-outs with his own knowledge. There it was, right on the screen. the Energon was being emitted from a single source – the crown of the volcano. Which meant, of course, that the source of the Energon… the reason for everything on this crazy world… was the Planet Key itself.

Why the crown of the volcano? Well, that was because the ambient Energon _couldn’t pass through rock_ Ordinary, boring, solid rock. Sedimentary, igneous, volcanic – it didn’t matter. If it was rock, the energy could not penetrate it. And so the Energon flowed up and out of the volcano… a continuous, silent, invisible eruption of radiation and energy.

 _Deep in the mountain of fire... the only place where the non-flesh can be robots again._ He’d attributed that to the Cybertronian ship, buried in the volcano, that Swoop had reported. If that were true, though, the _Steelhaven_ wouldn’t be on a deadline – and Overhaul’s ship would still be intact! In truth, the rocky walls of the volcano protected robots – caved would have worked just as well, he figured.

Swerve tried not to be too hard on himself. If Grimlock was right, then Animatros itself was to blame. The very environment worked to encourage doubt, self-loathing, anger and violence. He’d not surrender to it, not now. There was too much at stake. He knew how to stop the Animatros effect, knew how to transport the Planet Key back to Cybertron. A simple container, made of rock, would be enough. Maybe they could even coat it in lava from the volcano!

He opened his com-link to speak to Grimlock. For a moment he had a connection but it was poor, almost as if electricity was whipping past the microphone. A second later the feed was gone, connection broken… or cut off. He had no way of getting in touch with the Dinobots.

No way… except in person.

Swerve glanced down at his sleek, red and black body. He was fast, he knew… not as fast as Blur, but still right up there in the speed stakes. Was that fast enough to outrun Energon overload? Could he make it from the ship to the volcano without frying in the middle of a forest… or blowing out his engine?

He took a deep breath, letting it fill his air hoses and flow out of his vents. Science was all about answering the big questions, and the best answers were always found through practical experiments. By getting your hands dirty.

Swerve ran for the door and slapped the hatch release, stepping out into the world. Wasting no time he transformed, gunned his engine and sped off… trying to ignore the red temperature needle on his dashboard, which had already started climbing.

\-----

The Terrorcons were doing some serious damage to the dragon-bot. Even Decepticons fell out, it would seem. Not only were they doing serious damage, but they were pretty much doing Swoop’s job for him.

The Dinobot could have cared less. In fact, Swoop was pretty certain he’d rather lose the battle, the war and the entire frelling universe before he passed on a chance to skrag Divebomb.

The metallic pteranodon focused past the fight… around Flame Convoy’s vicious assaults, above Snarl’s plaintive wail of “wait!”… and ploughed into Divebomb, knocking his foe to the ground.

“Do yourself a favour and stay down, creep,” Swoop bellowed. “You’ll be more comfortable when my beak eviscerates you!”

The condor transformed to robot mode. “Well, if it isn’t the artist formerly known as Divebomb,” he sneered maliciously. “You still hung up about all that?”

“You stole my name!” Swoop cried.

“Should have picked ‘Captain Obvious’ as a replacement if you want to keep yelling out stuff I already know,” Divebomb chuckled. “Besides, it was more like me kicking your afterburner and _taking_ your name. Want it back? Come get me!”

With that, he transformed again and launched at the Dinobot. They collided in mid-air, sparks leaping from their razor-edged wings as each jockeyed for leverage over the other.

Below, Insecticon hung grimly onto Flame Convoy’s neck, seeking purchase for his stinger. Battle Ravage was beneath the dragon, clawing at his soft belly. Cruel Lock, ever the strategist, kept their former god distracted by dashing back-and-forth, dancing in front of his vision yet evading every strike.

Yet something else distracted Flame Convoy… a glint of white and blue, hovering at the very edge of the battle. “Fang Wolf!” he cried. “My prodigal son, you have returned to me!”

Snarl lifted his head. _Fang Wolf? Is he talking to me?_ Something in the beast’s tone stirred feelings deep within his processor but they were wispy, intangible like mountain mist.

“Help me, my loyal and brave lieutenant – come to the aid of your lord! We must annihilate these pretenders and reclaim the glory of the Purple Mask!”

Something in Snarl’s head clicked into place. Pain lanced behind his optics and he yelped, covering the stinging sensors with his paws. Fuel pounded through his linkage as bytes and bytes of data downloaded into his memory, all at once.

_Standing at Flame Convoy’s side. Supporting the dragon, executing his will… but always looking for another angle, always seeking to unseat the king._

_Hunting with the Purple Masks. Sickened by the putrid stench of flesh, contemptuous of the feeble animals and their utter weakness._

_Arguing openly with Flame Convoy and Predacon. Insulted by the insinuation he needed flesh to become somehow superior, furious at their zealotry and mad goals._

_Rebelling with the Red Masks. Learning to live off the land and finding some measure of harmony with the dumb, pathetic beasts around them._

_Kneeling in defeat, the last one left alive. Robbed of a warrior’s death as Flame Convoy pressed his claws into his brain, corrupting data and reducing him to the level of the animals he so despised._

_Flame Convoy, whose green eyes burned as he laughed and laughed and laughed…_

The wolf-bot howled, every tremor of sound filled with blood. Ignoring the danger he transformed, levelling his long-barrelled missile-launched at his former master. Drawing a bead on the centre of the dragon’s head.

“My name,” he yelled, “is Snarl!”

He pulled the trigger and the missile leapt forward, dead on target. But only for a moment… almost too quickly to follow, Flame Convoy transformed to robot mode, shook Insecticon loose and snatched the missile out of mid-air.

“Thank you, my former soldier,” he crooned, “for the perfect gift.”

With his other hand, Flame Convoy grabbed Cruel Lock and rammed the missile down his throat. Its warhead detonated and set off his internal weapons pods. A hundred different munitions exploded out of the shocked velociraptor and ploughed into his brethren. Battle Ravage and Insecticon vanished in a hail of fire.

Still on the sidelines, Snarl watched in disbelief. _No! That’s not what I wanted!_

The smoke cleared… and Flame Convoy stood alone. He still held the perforated Cruel Lock aloft while his hind claws rested on the battered bodies of the other Terrorcons. Though badly damaged… bleeding, leaking fluid, burned… the mad god-tyrant was _smiling_.

“I’d give you proper thanks for your generosity,” he cackled, “but you are about to receive payment in full, anyway.”

Snarl had but a second to wonder what he meant. Then blue lightning crackled and wreathed about him… Energon overload! He tried to transform but was already too weak, too feeble to do anything but crumple into stasis lock.

As his optics dimmed, he saw Flame Convoy stride toward the Ark… and Grimlock.


	6. Chapter 6

His tyres were red hot, the friction blistering his paintwork. His engine screamed in protest, wanting to either shut down or shake itself out from under his hood. The first tiny tendrils of Energon lightning had begun to slither across his windshield.

Swerve ignored it all and accelerated.

\-----

“Pretty sure me figured it out,” Grimlock grunted, using his axe to parry another whip strike. “You not from around here, are you?”

He was talking tough but feeling very, very rough. His injuries were greatly impeding his performance. Predacon, meanwhile, had manifested one of those blasted green discs and seemed to grow stronger with each passing second.

Their fight had spilled into a throne room of some kind, but the ornate chair would provide no cover. Grimlock knew his best way of handling the religious freak was to make him mad and sloppy.

“Figured it out on the way here,” he puffed, dancing away. “You not a local, you an import – from Cyberton. Came here with Overhaul in survey ship, before the war. Bet this place was big shock to system, eh?”

Predacon laughed. “The Purple Masks saved me… reformatted me to beast mode. I went on to discover the Transmetal process and, in doing so, repaid my debt,” he sneered. “They saved that fool Overhaul, too, made him into a lion as I recall… not that it did him much good in the long run.”

He cocked his head to one side. “If you’re trying to distract me, Dinobot, you’re failing miserably.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Because you’ll only take my secrets to your grave!”

His assault intensified. Grimlock dropped to one knee, barely able to lift his axe. He tried to nail Predacon with an uppercut but the other Tyrannosaur dodged the blow and kicked out with a clawed foot. It caught Grimlock in the jaw and he fell to the floor once again. His Energon axe clattered out of his grip and came to rest against the far wall.

Predacon loomed over him. Grimlock damned himself for his weakness. He thought he may still be suffering from a slight case of Energon overload, even here in the ship. _Never thought I’d want to be a puny fleshling so bad. Which is really dumb last thought to have_.

The ground beneath him shook. He groaned. The big dragon-bot was on his way in, and he was not happy. Grimlock steeled himself for a crushing impact but it never came – the giant beast hurdled him and crashed into Predacon, trying to wrap his big orange hands around the zealot’s neck.

“Traitor!” He screamed. “Die for denouncing me!”

The Decepticons grappled, knocking down the far wall and exposing a doorway to the heart of the volcano. Grimlock could see the Planet Key. The emerald disc hovered over the very centre of a massive lava lake, its golden trim pointing up to the open mouth.

More shocking, though, was the sight above his head. Fused to the very rock were two Transformers – beast-like, but lacking any flesh. One looked something like a rhino and the other a lion. The rhino was obviously dead, its corpse blackened by Energon radiation. The lion – Grimlock realised it was Overhaul – twitched occasionally, jerking with every bolt of blue lightning. Grimlock hoped the former bodyguard was dead, else he was in terrible torment.

He felt something sizzle and pop near his legs, and transformed back into beast mode. Even behind his thick armour plating he could feel the rush of Energon radiation, flowing around and over him like one of Earth’s rivers. All of which meant the Key wasn’t soaked with Energon… it was the _source_ of the blasted problem.

That’d make getting it back to Cybertron very, very difficult. Still, he’d worry about that when he actually had possession of the damn thing. Right now, he had to stop Flame Convoy from summoning it. Which meant distracting him. Which meant…

He sighed. He was going to have to help Predacon. _Terrific. Some days, me wonder why me even bother switching on in morning_.

Grimlock lowered his head and charged, only to be deflected by a sweep of Flame Convoy’s massive battle hammer. He tried to shake off the effects and failed, again slumping to one knee. He saw Predacon loop his whip around Flame Convoy’s neck and try to choke him.

Two orange heads flipped up from Flame Convoy‘s shoulders and hissed. Their jaws open wide and a purple liquid shot from their throats. It coated Predacon’s face and seemed to sink into his eyes – poison, or perhaps and acid. Whatever it was, the Tyrannosaur-bot howled with agony and fell to the floor, hands madly scrabbling at his head.

Flame Convoy’s three heads turned, as one, toward Grimlock. “May need to see someone about problem,” the Dinobot quipped. “Heard it difficult to be of two minds about things. You likely in three minds most of time – need good psychiatrist.”

The dragon sneered. “Listen to it talk, pretending its intelligent,” he said. Grimlock realised he was talking to the serpentine heads. “It thinks it’s sentient, thinks it’s more than an animal. But listen to it talk – hear its primitive syntax, its guttural speech, its lack of pronouns. It is dumb and weak.”

“Call me dumb?” Grimlock replied, refusing to rise to the bait. “You have three heads and still not figured out my plan.”

The snake-heads hissed and snapped at him. One fired a stream of the same purple liquid but the Dinobot was too fast, and side-stepped it.

“Your prattling is a sign of your contemptuous weakness,” Flame Convoy growled, addressing him once again. “Yet it is understandable. One is likely to babble in the face of a god.”

“God?” Grimlock roared, fury flooding his circuitry. “You no god, Flame Convoy. You slaughter helpless animals, waste their lives in mad quest to grant yourself power, butcher then senselessly for own gratification. You not a god, you a disease – a scourge on this poor world!”

The dragon-bot bristled. “Arrogant animal. You have lost the right to silence yourself. I shall do it for you.”

Again, the battle hammer rose and fell, shattered the spot where Grimlock had, a second before, been standing. Whatever he may be – god or lunatic, flesh or metal – the big beast was hurting, which made it slow enough for Grimlock to dodge. He skipped around three more blows then ducked under a fourth, coming up close enough to do some real damage.

Out of time and patience, Grimlock surrendered to the animal within. He plunged his teeth into Flame Convoy and bit down, exerting as much pressure as he could. Then he pulled back, neck hydraulics straining, and tore the dragon’s entire chest free!

He staggered back, still gripping the ragged, bleeding flesh in his jaws. Flame Convoy was a mess of exposed wiring and organs. Grimlock could see plastic hoses connecting a fuel pump to large, wet lungs and strands of nerve fibre linking a steel spine to twitching muscles. He could scarcely tell where the machine ended and the animal began, but knew neither would survive long with such a massive wound.

Flame Convoy gently touched his exposed innards. Then he rolled his shoulders, raised his hands and breathed in deeply. To Grimlock’s horror, the flesh began to _regrow_ before his very optics! He watched with morbid fascination as fibres, then nerves and muscle, reformed and knitted together. Small veins of metal ran though the regenerating tissue, while blue Energon lighting fused the various pieces together. When the nauseating jigsaw had been completed, Flame Convoy turned his attention back to the Dinobot.

“ _Huntnomore_ beckons, primitive,” he laughed. His brow furrowed in concentration, and Grimlock saw the Planet Key grow faint and indistinct. He was summoning it, and any second would power up to another level, a level Grimlock could not possibly hope to match.

With no options left, he transformed to robot mode and brandished his axe. If he was going to die, then he was going out as a mechanoid, not an animal. He had fought off the planet’s influence and regained control – achieved, for the first time in his existence, balance between the extremes of his personality. He’d used the animal as a weapon while maintaining the intelligence of a Transformer. That would have to be enough of a victory. That, and the satisfaction of going out like a warrior.

The Planet Key materialised behind Flame Convoy. It hovered near a port in the base of his spine, lining up for ignition.

 _If only me done better by Swerve. Poor little guy, left alone in the ship to die_. For a mad second, Grimlock even thought he could hear the metallurgist’s engine revving. He watched as the Planet Key glowed brighter and pulled back, ready to slam itself into its master.

A brilliant red streak shot toward them, transforming in mid-air into Swerve. “Grimlock!” he cried, reaching out desperately. The metallurgist kept on going, right past the Dinobot and toward Flame Convoy.

There was a sickening crunch… then a scream, equal parts triumph and agony. Swerve had forced his hand – his delicate, highly sensitive, instrument-laden hand – between the Planet Key and its port. The black extremity had been crushed to paper thinness but the desperate ploy had worked. Lacking a connection, the Key had powered down and floated gently to the rocky floor, where it lay dormant between them.

Swerve, crackling with blue lightning and barely conscious, called out to Grimlock. “Energon,” he rasped. “Rock… can’t pass through. Lava is molten rock.” Then he collapsed into stasis lock.

Grimlock understood. He stared down Flame Convoy, crimson optics glowering. “This it,” he breathed. “Do or die. Last chance.”

The dragon laughed contemptuously. “Last chance for what, animal?”

The Dinobot never answered. Instead, he summoned all his strength swung his axe into the ground. It shattered the volcanic rock, spider-webbing the entire platform with fault lines. Grimlock raised one foot and stomped, hard, and the ground split along the faults.

He had just enough time to snatch up the Planet Key and Swerve, and jump back to safer ground. Flame Convoy, bewildered by the tactic, was not so lucky. The dragon fell backwards into the fiery lake, throwing up a geyser of lava as he went under, then surfaced.

“You’ve achieved nothing, beast!” he roared. “I walked across this lake of fire to claim the Master Disc, centuries ago! It did not hurt me then!”

“Maybe so,” Grimlock called, “But I bet you were more metal than flesh in good old days.”

A queasy expression crept over Flame Convoy’s face. He looked down to see his organic parts – his beautiful, marvellous flesh – catch fire and start to melt.

 _Energon can’t go through rock_ , Grimlock thought smugly. _Lava is rock, lava burns flesh, Flame Convoy can’t heal flesh without Energon. Has three heads, but still too dumb to figure it out._

The stench of burning fat wafted past. Flame Convoy began to sink and sizzle and scream. His extra heads bobbled and writhed madly, mute in their terror and accusations. Grimlock watched as the massive beast, the self-styled god, thrashed and kicked and begged for deliverance from the all-consuming fire. Flame Convoy flexed his wings and even tried to transform, but the lava was too thick and it restricted his movements. He continued to scream until all three of his heads sank under the boiling, white-hot liquid rock and vanished from sight.

Grimlock hunched forward, resting his hands on his knees for support. He was tired – so very, very tired – but he had one job left to do. Without stopping to transform, he slung Swerve over his shoulder and trudged for the throne room.

He looked down and saw his legs buckle, their joints seizing. Sparks shot from his bearings and intakes, while blue-white lightning crawled across his torso and down his arms. _Warning_ , flashed a message across his vision. _System overload. Ambient Energon levels too high. Stasis lock in two minutes._

He growled and tried to run. He shouldn’t have noticed the added weight of Swerve and the Key, but his legs were giving out from under him, slowing his pace. Barely walking, staggering more than anything else, Grimlock kept going.

He could see the golden halls of the ship, perhaps 200 metres away, but it may has well have been in another galaxy. As one internal system after another shorted out, the Dinobot commander knew he would not make it back to his ship. He managed two final, faltering steps.

 _No!_ cried the animal within. The beast. Tyrannosaurus Rex – king of the dinosaurs, the unbeatable predator. It would not have laid down and surrendered, and neither would he.

Two faltering steps became three, and then four… then eight and nine. With a tenth step, he and his cargo fell through the open door and back into the throne room. Grimlock forced himself to transform, wincing with the effort.

 _System overload averted_ , read the message across his vision. _Body functions at 2 per cent. Recommend immediate CR chamber treatment._

“You telling me,” Grimlock said, sinking to the floor. He’d done it – the battle was over. All he had to do was rouse Swoop and Snarl, hitch a lift back to the _Steelhaven_ and take the Key back to Cybertron. Universe saved and all that crap.

Something heavy rammed into his throat, crushing it. Gasping for breath, Grimlock realised it was a clawed foot. A sickeningly familiar hand reached down and took the Planet Key from him, then the foot stomped on his throat four more times.

Predacon’s corrupted visage filled his vision. His once-pristine face was pockmarked with acid burns. “Thank you ever so much for your contribution to the Terrorcon cause, Grimlock,” the Decepticon said. “Rest assured I’ll make your death swift and painless, next time we meet, as my little way of saying thanks.”

The harlequin face went away, only to be replaced with a hurtling fist.


	7. Chapter 7

Predacon staggered into the light, clutching the gold-trimmed Planet Key. Triumph! He had set his mind to committing regicide… perhaps even deicide… and been successful. He and his Terrorcons had become the ultimate power on this planet.

And if they could kill a god, how difficult would it be to eliminate a Decepticon commander? No trouble at all.

The Tyrannosaur-bot took stock of his troops. Battle Ravage and Insecticon were nursing shrapnel wounds and slight cases of shock; they recovered quickly enough. Cruel Lock was a different story. His processor filled with sadness at the sight of his beloved protégé – Flame Convoy’s insidious actions had left the velociraptor riddled with holes and barely functional.

Predacon snatched his own Force Chip from its port and flung it away, not caring where it landed. He willed the Planet Key into his personal sub-space pocket, where only he could access it. There, its rampant Energon output would do not damage to him or to his troops. Then he gingerly picked up his fallen soldier, his truest disciple, and cradled him in his arms.

“My god abandoned me,” he whispered to Cruel Lock. “You shall not suffer the same fate.”

Cruel Lock smiled weakly.

The others joined him. Insecticon was grumbling and grousing about his injuries but Battle Ravage stood tall on his four legs. The jaguar wore the scars as badges of honour and would likely refuse CR treatment. Predacon resolved to find a way to share the blessing of the Planet Key among them all, and soon. His heart beat faster at the thought of a Battle Ravage with ultimate power… and the havoc such a being would wreak on that blind fool, Megatron.

A sudden flash of concern. Where was Divebomb?

From above came a screech of triumph, a fuel-chilling sound of murderous elation. A large, metal form – a bird, it seemed – fell to the ground next to the Terrorcons. It groaned once and then was silent. Unsure if he wanted to know who it was, Predacon nevertheless leaned forward to look.

Then he laughed, long and hard. It was the Dinobot called Swoop. And above the twisted wreck, injured and warped but very much alive, was Divebomb.

“He’s getting better, I’ll give him that,” the condor said, exertion obvious in his tone. “Still can’t quite cut it, though.” He nodded toward his vicious Energon scythes and laughed.

Divebomb looped down and perched on Battle Ravage’s shoulders. Both grew animated, eagerly discussing their individual battles. Insecticon lumbered over to Predacon’s side and asked “what now?”

“Now?” Predacon grinned. “Now we go back to the ship and start repairs on Cruel Lock. We fly back to Cybertron and, along the way, we report our failure to Megatron.”

“Failure?” Insecticon cried. Battle Ravage and Divebomb also turned, concerned. The Terrorcons had yet to fail in an assignment – had not, on this day – and were not pleased with a suggestion otherwise.

“Pride goeth before the fall,” Predacon quoted. “A public façade of failure, a sham of defeat, is necessary for our ultimate destiny, my True Path. We need time to discern the full potential of the Planet Key, learn how to harness its ambient Energon rather than let it destroy us. Distraction will give us that time, shame will provide our cover… and it will make our prey all the more succulent, all the more fat and unwary, when we finally pounce.”

Battle Ravage crooned. Divebomb, as always, translated. “He says he can handle that.”

“But what about the Transmetal process?” Insecticon demanded. “What our the anointing of flesh?”

“I will recreate the process back on Cybertron,” Predacon promised. “That, combined with the Planet Key’s mysteries, will provide us with the means to ascend to the very peak of the Decepticons, and then rule over those inferior beings below us.”

As one, the Terrorcons grinned. Then they began the slow walk back to their ship, concealed on the other side of the volcano. Predacon, still holding Cruel Lock, took one last look around the valley of _huntnomore_. It had been the place of his ultimate salvation and his ultimate betrayal. With Flame Convoy and the others gone, he was the sole survivor of Animatros – the pinnacle of the planet’s evolutionary process. Further, he was now armed with the tools, knowledge and troops to ascend higher, to become even more. To merge the ancient with the modern, the animal with the Transformer, and become what Flame Convoy had only pretended to be… a god.

Predacon laughed. _Yes. My era is dawning._

\-----

“What happened to you all?”

Grimlock winced. In a lot of ways, this was more painful than anything Flame Convoy had done to him.

Still, at least Optimus Prime was the sort of leader who cared more about his troops than the results of their mission. He’d been concerned from the moment they’d made contact, soon after the _Steelhaven_ took to the skies. Despite the chaos around him – Grimlock could see bits of Cybertron lifting, tearing and shredding behind Prime – the mighty red-and-blue warrior had been the picture of concern.

Grimlock addressed the view screen, giving Optimus a brief run-down of events on the planet Animatros. “Came to and brought everyone back to Ark,” he finished. “Me and Swerve pretty much okay, but Swoop badly beaten. He in CR chamber now. Also…” he wasn’t sure how to explain this part, but ploughed ahead. “We have guest.”

From the view screen, Optimus Prime peered into the _Steelhaven_ and looked over the newcomer. “This Snarl,” Grimlock explained, gesturing to the blue and white wolf-bot. “There nothing left for him on that planet, so me figure there no reason he can’t come with us, be part of real Autobot army instead of some backwater guerrilla.”

“He looks more like a wolf to me.”

“Huh?”

“It was a joke, Grimlock. Guerrilla, gorilla… wolf. You know, animals.”

“Prime, you been at the Maccadam’s premium grade oil again?”

The Autobot leader sighed. “Grimlock, if we can’t have small jokes at a time like this, with the fate of existence at stake, then we’ve lost the battle already.” He turned serious again. “Tell Snarl he’s more than welcome to join us. If he’s as valiant as you say, he’ll make a fine addition to our forces.”

“How they doing?” Grimlock asked.

“Downshift’s team is on its way back, Planet Key in hand," Prime said without a trace of recrimination. Still, Grimlock rankled. "Nightbeat's team has already returned. They had less distance to travel but had... other problems. Last I head, Ultra Magnus and the Earthforce were still searching.

“As for your stolen Planet Key… I want you to head back here to Cybertron, as fast as you can. Based on what Sparkplug, Over-Run and I have discovered, Predacon will most likely come here with the device. It would seem there’s more to these Keys than we’ve been told.” He frowned. “We’re working with only half the information, and I don’t like it.”

The Dinobot grunted. “Mad prophets not always what they cracked up to be, eh?”

Optimus Prime nodded, but said no more. “Heal your wounds and bring your team home, Grimlock. That Key is far from lost, and I have every faith you will recover it when you’re not having battling Energon poisoning at the same time.” He broke the connection, and the view screen went blank.

Snarl padded up behind Grimlock. “Your leader is… different than I’d expected.” He said quietly. “I’d thought there’d be more anger in his voice, more indignant rage at our failure.”

“Prime? Nah… he pussycat. Little too soft in the head sometimes, but me working to fix that,” Grimlock replied. “To Prime, battle not over until every last Spark extinguished – where there life, there hope. Besides,” he grinned wickedly, “Prime also know me too stubborn to quit until me holding Planet Key in my hands again. That best weapon against Predacon, and he know it.”

Snarl was silent, and Grimlock asked “How you doing? Memory come back?”

The wolf-bot hesitated. Oh, he remembered everything all right. What it was like to serve and, better, what it was like to lead. That familiar chafing feeling crept over him… that sense he was again trapped under an incompetent, weak commander. Someone who put stupid, senseless concerns in front of the real goal – harmony through dominance.

“No,” he told Grimlock. “Nothing. My memories are still faint and indistinct. They’ll likely never come back, now we’ve left Animatros.” He gave a deep – and false – sigh. “Still, I have made my choice and cast my lot. Whoever I was, I am now Snarl, and that shall be my life.”

Grimlock patted him on the shoulder as he passed. _I am now Snarl, but I’m still a wolf in the fold_ , the Red Mask thought. _If this situation is not to my liking after all, my claws and fangs will change it._

Swerve sat alone, meanwhile, toward the back of the ship. Grimlock’s description of the lion-bot, twitching and jiggling in the middle of the Energon storm, haunted his thoughts. There was little doubt, thanks to Predacon, that the beast had once been Overhaul, his good friend. He’d mourned Overhaul’s loss, vorns ago, and was now left to mourn him again. Mourn… and hope he was dead, rather than suffering further torture.

He looked down at his ruined hand. A CR chamber couldn’t fix the warped and broken digits. It would take time, patience and repeated micro-graft operations before he could sense with it again. He had a lot of work to do – with the help of Red Alert and Downshift, of course.

In spite of their defeat and his dour mood, Swerve felt more capable of tackling the delicate job than ever before. He was neither scientist nor engineer and, for the first time, that was all right by him. His skills were just as valuable, just as necessary to the Autobot cause, as anyone else’s. They may have lost the Planet Key, they may all be injured, but none of them would have survived without his discoveries.

It gave him a small measure of hope in the face of universal annihilation.

Grimlock came up to him, his voice soft and subdued. “Me owe you apology, Swerve,” he muttered. “Should have done more to save Overhaul. Even taken time to get him down, at least. Take him home for proper funeral.”

Swerve shook his head. “You would have melted your wiring, Grimlock. Flame Convoy was so powerful because of that chamber. The Energon could only escape the volcano through its mouth and so it bottle-necked, ricocheting around the chamber and building in intensity. Bathing in that may have been good for him, but no good for us.” He tried to laugh. “And your dinosaur mode isn’t really equipped for climbing work, you know.”

Grimlock smiled. “Not too sure about that. Starting to think there not much the ugly lizard mode can’t do, now it and I on speaking terms.” He hesitated, not sure how to continue. “You okay?”

“Yeah… yeah, I think I am.” He waved his ruined hand. “Aside from the obvious, that is.”

“Meant to thank you for that,” Grimlock said gruffly. “Took a lot of spine, shoving thing you most treasure in way like that.”

Swerve looked up at the massive Dinobot, battered and bruised but no less noble for his experiences. He remembered all the times he’d pestered the giant and gotten in his way… all the times Grimlock had saved him, irrespective of his annoyance. Then he thought of Overhaul, fused to the wall of that volcano, beyond all help. Beyond Swerve’s ability to save him.

“Thanks, Grimlock,” he said. “But just so you know, there’s a lot of things I treasure more than my special hand.”

Grimlock was taken aback by the comment. He coughed – a little too loudly, Swerve thought – and started muttering. “Yes, well… ah… better go steer ship now. Never trust autopilot on long journey, eh?” He walked from the room, trying to keep his face out of sight.

Swerve watched him leave, then his sight again settled on his ruined hand. Yes, it would heal. He’d even use the repairs as an opportunity to install new sensors, different gadgets so he was not caught unawares by a place like Animatros again.

He was confident he could do that.

\-----

The discarded Force Chip bounced and skidded across the volcanic rock. Waves of Energon, invisible to the naked eye, crashed into and clung onto it, charging it as it moved.

The green and silver disc fast ran out of rock and plunged over the edge of a chasm. It plummeted down and landed in something soft and pink… a surface warm and yielding.

Blue lightning crackled out of the chip like a bolt from a spark plug. The electric bolts skimmed the surface of the dumped animal carcasses and plunged into them. There was a hiss and a crackle, barely audible… and then something moved.

Life had returned to Animatros.


End file.
